great man and a decent sort; Mahr was an unworthy specimen. Brencherly
decided that at all Costs Marcus Gard must be protected. He cursed the
promise that kept him at his post. He longed to get into personal touch
with every tangible piece of evidence, every clew, noted and unnoted.
His men were on the spot and reporting to him; but that could not make
up for personal investigation. In view of these new developments, what
would be Mrs. Marteen's next move? Some secret bond connected the
three--Mahr, Gard and Mrs. Marteen.

Brencherly, alone in Gard's library, rose and paced the room, glancing
at the desk clock every time his line of march took him past the table.
His employer was coming home fast as steam could bring him. He longed
for his arrival and the council of war that must ensue; longed to be
relieved of the tedium of room-tied waiting. He no longer looked for any
communication from Mrs. Marteen. She had her reasons for concealment, no
doubt, and he felt assured that neither hospital nor morgue would yield
her up. It was with genuine delight that he at last heard the familiar
voice on the telephone, though it was but a hurried inquiry for news.

Half an hour later, haggard and worn beyond belief, Gard hurried into
the library and held out his hand.

The young man looked at his face in astonishment as Gard threw himself
into the chair and turned toward him.

"You'll pardon me," he faltered. "There's nothing that can't wait, and
you need rest, sir."

"Not till I can get it without nightmares," he snapped. "Now give me
this Mahr affair--all of it. I've seen the papers, of course, but I