with an untranslatable grunt, abruptly took his departure, leaving his
sister to wonder over the strangeness of his actions.

Once out of the house, his anger blazed freely, and his chauffeur
received a lecture on the driving and care of machines that was as
undeserved as it was vigorous and emphatic.

Moved by a strange mingling of anger, curiosity and jealousy, Gard's
first act on entering his library was to telephone to a well known
detective agency--no surprising thing on his part, for not infrequently
he made use of their services to obtain sundry details as to the
movements of his opponents, and when, as often happened, cranks
threatened the thorny path of wealth and prominence, he had found
protection with the plain clothes men.

"Jordan," he growled over the wire, "I want Brencherly up here right
away. Is he there?....All right. I want some information he may be able
to give me offhand. If not--well, send him now."

He hung up the receiver and paced the room, his eyes on the rug, his
hands behind his back, disgusted and angry with his own anger and
disgust.

Half an hour had passed, when a young man of dapper appearance was
ushered in. Gard looked up, frowning, into the mild blue eyes of the
detective.

"Hello, Brencherly. Know Victor Mahr?"

"Yes," said the youth.