* * * * *

Sanford Quest descended, about ten minutes later, before a large and
gloomy-looking house in Georgia Square. The neighbourhood was, in its way,
unique. The roar and hubbub of the city broke like a restless sea only a
block or so away. On every side, this square of dark, silent houses seemed
to be assailed by the clamour of the encroaching city. For some reason or
other, however, it remained a little oasis of old-fashioned buildings,
residences, most of them, of a generation passed away. Sanford Quest
entered the house with a latch-key. He glanced into two of the rooms on
the ground-floor, in which telegraph and telephone operators sat at their
instruments. Then, by means of a small elevator, he ascended to the top
story and, using another key, entered a large apartment wrapped in gloom
until, as he crossed the threshold, he touched the switches of the
electric lights. One realised then that this was a man of taste. The
furniture and appointments of the room were of dark oak. The panelled
walls were hung with a few choice engravings. There were books and papers
about, a piano in the corner. A door at the further end led into what
seemed to be a sleeping-apartment. Quest drew up an easy-chair to the
wide-flung window, touching a bell as he crossed the room. In a few
moments the door was opened and closed noiselessly. A young woman entered
with a little bundle of papers in her hand.

"Anything for me, Laura?" he asked.

"I don't believe you will think so, Mr. Quest," she answered calmly.

She drew a small table and a reading lamp to his side and stood quietly
waiting. Her eyes followed Quest's as he glanced through the letters, her