chest rose and
fell; and now he had taken Hobart Hitchin's arm again and led him back
to a dusky corridor.

"You!" said Dalton. "I don't know who you are and why you came here; but
this I ask you, and if you don't answer truthfully, God help you! Does
that trunk, to your belief, contain the body of the boy you call
Prentiss?"

"To my almost certain knowledge!"

"And he was murdered in the apartment of _Anthony Fry_?"

"He was, sir, and----"

"Come!" said Theodore Dalton, once more, and they returned to the study
in a series of stumbles and little jumps.

Once in the dark, handsome room Theodore Dalton walked straight to the
cabinet in the corner and, with a key, opened the topmost drawer. He
extracted therefrom a heavy automatic pistol and slipped out its
magazine. He opened a box of cartridges and filled the little box; and
when it had clicked into the handle of the automatic, and the pistol
itself was in his pocket.

"There was a cab leaving the door when you came," he said quietly. "Did
you dismiss it?"

"I--I believe so," said Hobart Hitchin, who as an actual fact liked
neither the sight of the weapon nor the sight of Dalton just now.

"Bates!" Dalton spoke into the little interior telephone. "My car!"

"If you're going somewhere----" escaped Hobart Hitchin.

"I am going to see Anthony Fry. You are going with me. You are going to
accuse him, in my presence, of the crime," said Theodore Dalton, with
the same ominous calm. "And when you have accused him, I shall do the
rest! Sit down!"

* * * * *

Anthony Fry, because there was more relief in him than flesh and blood,
leaned back in his pet chair and gazed at the ceiling, long, steadily,
happily. He would have liked to smoke, yet he declined to make the
effort which would break the delicious lassitude that possessed him. He
would have liked to sing, too, and clap Johnson Boller on the back and
assure him that all was well in the best possible world--but for a
little it was enough to sneer smilingly at Boller's bent head.

He, poor fool, fancied that all was over because his infernal wife had
threshed around a bit and gone off clutching poor little Mary's hat--a
funny thing in itself. Instead of getting up and cheering at his
prospective freedom from the matrimonial yoke, Johnson was groaning
there and clawing into his hair; and now, by the way, he was raising his
head and turning toward his old friend.

"Anthony!" Jo