perplexed. It was wholly unprecedented. However, the first thing to
do now was to keep Mr. Wynne in sight, so he came down the steps and
walked rapidly on to Sixty-seventh Street, pausing to peer around the
corner before he turned. Mr. Wynne was idling along, half a block
away, without the slightest apparent interest in what was happening
behind. Inevitably Mr. Birnes' eyes were drawn to the water-plug
across the street. A tag end of white paper gleamed tantalizingly.
Now what the deuce did it mean?

Being only human, Mr. Birnes went across the street and got the
paper. It was an envelope. As he unfolded it and gazed at the
address, written in pencil, his mouth opened in undignified
astonishment. It was addressed to him--Steve Birnes, Chief of the
Birnes Detective Agency. Mr. Wynne had still not looked back, so
the detective trailed along behind, opening the envelope as he
walked. A note inside ran briefly:

My address is No. ---- East Thirty-seventh Street. If it is
necessary for you to see me please call there about six o'clock
this afternoon.
E. VAN CORTLANDT WYNNE

Now here was, perhaps, as savory a kettle of fish as Mr. Birnes had
ever stumbled upon. It is difficult to imagine a more embarrassing
situation for the professional sleuth than to find himself suddenly
taken into the confidence of the person he is shadowing. But _was_
he being taken into Mr. Wynne's confidence? Ah! That was the
question! Admitting that Mr. Wynne knew who he was, and admitting
that he knew he was being followed, was not this apparent frankness
an attempt to throw him off the scent? He would see, would Mr.