that city the New York afternoon editions would have been distributed.
At last they glided up to the station and the porter swung off into the
waiting room. Gard rose and stood waiting, chewing savagely on his
unlighted cigar.

"It's Mahr," he apologized to Denning. "I want to learn the facts." His
hand shook as he snatched the smudgy sheets from the negro.

In big letters across the front page he caught the headline:


MURDER OF VICTOR MAHR

FAMOUS CLUBMAN AND FINANCIER
STABBED TO DEATH IN HIS OWN LIBRARY

EVIDENCE OF ROBBERY

WOMAN SUSPECTED OF THE CRIME

"Stabbed to death ... Woman suspected." His brain reeled. How "stabbed
to death"? He himself had seen--"Woman suspected." Then all his
despairing efforts to save her had been in vain! The train, starting
suddenly, gave him ample excuse to clutch the back of the chair for
support, and to fall heavily upon its cushions. He could not have held
himself upright another moment. An absurd scheme flashed through his
brain. He would, if necessary, take the blame upon himself--anything to
shield her. He would say they had quarreled over the Vandyke.

He became aware that Denning was asking for one of the three papers he