his scrap, firmly written in the easy flowing
hand he knew so well. He studied it for a moment or two, then resumed
Miss Casson's letter:

"A man stopped our sleigh yesterday, asking if he was not speaking to
Mrs. Ruthven. I was a trifle worried, and replied that any communication
for Mrs. Ruthven could be sent to me.

"That evening two men--gentlemen apparently--came to the house and asked
for me. I went down to receive them. One was a Dr. Mallison, the other
said his name was Thomas B. Hallam, but gave no business address.

"When I found that they had come without your knowledge and authority, I
refused to discuss Mrs. Ruthven's condition, and the one who said his
name was Hallam spoke rather peremptorily and in a way that made me
think he might be a lawyer.

"They got nothing out of me, and they left when I made it plain that I
had nothing to tell them.

"I thought it best to let you know about this, though I, personally,
cannot guess what it might mean."

Selwyn turned the page:

"One other matter worries Miss Bond and myself. The revolver you sent us
at my request has disappeared. We are nearly sure Mrs. Ruthven has
it--you know she once dressed it as a doll--calling it her army
doll!--but now we can't find it. She has hidden it somewhere, out of
doors in the shrubbery, we think, and Miss Bond and I expect to secure
it the next time she takes a fancy to have all her dolls out for a
'lawn-party.'

"Dr. Wesson says there is no danger of her doing any harm with it, but
wants us to secure it at the first opportunity--"

He turned the last page; on the other side was merely the formula of
leave-taking and Miss Casson's signature.

For a while he stood in the centre of the room, head bent, narrowing
eyes fixed; then he folded the letter, pocketed it, and walked to the
table where a directory lay.

He found the name, Hallam, very easily--Thomas B. Hallam, lawyer, junior
in the firm of Spencer, Boyd & Hallam. They were attorneys for Jack
Ruthven; he knew that.

Mallison he also found--Dr. James Mallison, who, it appeared, conducted
some sort of private asylum on Long Island.

And when he had found what he wanted, he went to the telephone and rang
up Mr. Ruthven, but the servant who answered the telephone informed him
that Mr. Ruthven was not in town.

So Selwyn hung up the receiver and sat down, thoughtful, grim, the trace
of a scowl creeping across his narrowing gray eyes.

Of the abject cowardice of R