of the affair Sunday morning, immediately made it a matter of
personal interest to themselves. One of these was Mr. Latham,
another was Mr. Schultze, and a third was Mr. Birnes. The fourth
was Mr. E. van Cortlandt Wynne. In the seclusion of his home in
Thirty-seventh Street, Mr. Wynne read the story with puckered brows,
then re-read it, after which he paced back and forth across his room
in troubled thought for an hour or more. An oppressive sense of
uneasiness was coming over him; and it was reflected in eyes grown
somber.

After a time, with sudden determination, the young man dropped into
a chair at his desk, and wrote in duplicate, on a narrow strip of
tough tissue-paper, just one line:

Are you safe? Is all well? Answer quick.
W.

Then he mounted to the roof. As he flung open the trap a man on the
top of the house next door darted behind a chimney. Mr. Wynne saw
him clearly--it was Frank Claflin--but he seemed to consider the
matter of no consequence, for he paid not the slightest attention.
Instead he went straight to a cage beside the pigeon-cote, wherein a
dozen or more birds were imprisoned, removed one of them, attached a
strip of the tissue-paper to its leg, and allowed it to rise from
his out-stretched hand.

The pigeon darted away at an angle, up, up, until it grew indistinct
against the void, then swung widely in a semicircle, hovered
uncertainly for an instant, and flashed off to the west, straight as
an arrow flies. Mr. Wynne watched it thoughtfully until it had