By which he meant that the mysterious young woman of the cab, whose
description had been drilled into him by Mr. Birnes, had at last
reappeared. He lounged along the street, watching her with keen
interest, fixing her every detail in his mind. She did not hesitate,
she glanced neither to right nor left, but went straight to the house
occupied by Mr. Wynne, and rang the bell. A moment later the door was
opened, and she disappeared inside. The detective mopped his face
with tremulous joy.

"Doris!" exclaimed Mr. Wynne, as the veiled girl entered the room
where he sat. "Doris, my dear girl, what _are_ you doing here?"

He arose and went toward her. She tore off the heavy veil
impatiently, and lifted her moist eyes to his. There was suffering
in them, uneasiness--and more than that.

"Have you heard from him--out there?" she demanded.

"Not to-day, no," he responded. "_Why_ did you come here?"

"Gene, I can't stand it," she burst out passionately. "I'm worried
to death. I can't hear a word, and--I'm worried to death."

Mr. Wynne wondered if she, too, had seen the morning papers. He
stared at her gravely for an instant, then turned, crumpled up the
section of newspaper with its glaring head-lines and dropped it into
a waste-basket.

"I'm sorry," he said gently.