glanced at the impassive face of Mr. Czenki with keen, questioning
eyes; and for one bare instant it seemed as if he were trying to
bring his memory to his aid.

"I've found out all about this man Wynne," he supplemented after a
moment, "but nothing in his record seems to have any bearing on this
case. He is an orphan. His mother was a Van Cortlandt of old Dutch
stock, and his father was a merchant downtown. He left a few
thousands to the son, and the son is now in business for himself with
an office in lower Broad Street. He is an importer of brown sugar."

"Brown sugar?" queried Mr. Czenki quickly, and the thin, scarred face
reflected for a second some subtle emotion within him. "Brown
sugar!" he repeated.

"Yes," drawled the detective, with an unpleasant stare, "brown sugar.
He imports it from Cuba and Porto Rico and Brazil by the shipload, I
understand, and makes a good thing of it."

A quick pallor overspread Mr. Czenki's countenance, and he arose with
his fingers working nervously. His beady eyes were glittering; his
lips were pressed together until they were bloodless.

"_Vas iss?_" demanded Mr. Schultze curiously.

"My God, gentlemen, don't you see?" the expert burst out violently.
"Don't you see what this man has done? He has--he has--"

Suddenly, by a supreme effort, he regained control of himself, and
resumed his seat.