him as long as you
have confidence in the reward I've promised you."

"Perhaps not; but you take the life out of me. Last night you were too
hot; this morning you are too cold. But it's not for me to complain. You
know where to find me when you want me." And without more ado the
detective went out.

Mr. Ransom remained alone and in no enviable frame of mind. He was
distrustful of himself, distrustful of the man who had made all this
trouble, and distrustful of her, though he would not acknowledge it.
Every baser instinct in him drove him to the meeting he declined. To see
the man--to force from him the truth, seemed the only rational thing to
do. But the final words of his wife's letter stood in his way. She had
advised patience. If patience would clear the situation and bring him the
result he so ardently desired, then he would be patient--that is, for a
day; he did not promise to wait longer. Yes, he would give her a day.
That was time enough for a man suffering on the rack of such an
intolerable suspense--one day.

But even that day did not pass without breaks in his mood and more than
one walk in the direction of the St. Denis Hotel. If Gerridge's eye was
on him as well as on the special object of his surveillance, he must have
smiled, more than once, at the restless flittings of his client about the
forbidden spot. In the evening it was the same, but the next morning he
remained steadfastly at his hotel. He had laid out his future course in
these words: "I will extend the time to three days; then if I do not hear
from her I will get that wry-necked fellow by the throat and twist an
explanation from him." But the three days passed and he found the
situation unchanged. Then he set as his limit the end of the week, but
before the full time had elapsed he was advised by Gerridge that he
himself was being followed in his turn by a couple of private detectives;
and while still under the agitation of this discovery was further
disconcerted by having the following communication thrust into his hand
in the open street by a young woman who succeeded in losing herself in
the crowd before he had got so much as a good look at her.

You can judge of his amazement as he read the few lines it contained.

Read the papers to-night and forget the stranger at the St. Denis.

That was all. But the writing was hers. The hours passed slowly till the
papers were cried in the street. What Mr. Ransom read in them increased
his ast