else might not be in store for him?

Concentrating on the subject of Blair's death he concluded his best
course would be to get a file of newspapers covering the past two months
and read about it.

In a big newspaper office he accomplished this, and spent the rest of
the afternoon reading up the case.

Of late the subject was not a principal one in the papers.

McClellan Thorpe was in prison, awaiting his trial, and the police,
while still on the job, were not over aggressive.

Pennington Wise was not mentioned, so Peter had no means of knowing that
that astute person was connected with the matter.

But the news of Thorpe's arrest struck Peter a new blow. While not as
chummy with Thorpe as with Shelby and Blair, Peter had always liked him
and found it difficult to believe him guilty of Blair's death.

Back to his hotel went the man registered as John Harrison, and, going
to the restaurant for dinner, he ate and enjoyed a hearty meal.

After all, strange and weird as was the news he had heard, his parents
were alive and well--and, strangest of all, they were not grieving at
his death.

He was relieved at this, and yet, he was, in an inexplicable way,
disappointed. It _is_ a blow in the face to learn that your loved ones
are quite reconciled to your death because, forsooth, they get fool
messages from you through the services of a fool medium!

Peter's ire rose, and he was all for going to his father's house at
once, and then, back came the thought, how could he put that dear old
man to the blush for having written that preposterous book?

From the papers, too, Peter had learned of the furor the book had made,
of the great notoriety and popularity that had come to Benjamin Crane
from its publication, of the enormous sales it had had, and was still
having, and of the satisfaction and happiness the whole thing had
brought to both Mr. and Mrs. Crane.

So, stifling his longing to go home and to see his people, Peter decided
to sleep over it before taking any definite steps.

He had small fear of recognition. Nobody in New York believed him alive,
or had any thought of looking for him. His present appearance was so
different from the portrait in the book that, after he had changed his
looks still further by a different brushing of his hair, he felt there
was no trace of likeness left save perhaps his blue eyes. And only one
who knew him well would notice his eyes, and he had no expectation of
running up against