security. McCarren had fastened on the case at once, "like a
leech," as he phrased it--jumped at it, thrilled to it, and
settled down to "draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not
let go till he had." No one else had treated Granice in that
way--even Allonby's detective had not taken a single note. And
though a week had elapsed since the visit of that authorized
official, nothing had been heard from the District Attorney's
office: Allonby had apparently dropped the matter again. But
McCarren wasn't going to drop it--not he! He positively hung on
Granice's footsteps. They had spent the greater part of the
previous day together, and now they were off again, running down
clues.

But at Leffler's they got none, after all. Leffler's was no
longer a stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the
respite between sentence and execution it had become a vague
place of storage, a hospital for broken-down carriages and carts,
presided over by a blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of
Flood's garage across the way--did not even remember what had
stood there before the new flat-house began to rise.

"Well--we may run Leffler down somewhere; I've seen harder jobs
done," said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name.

As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less
sanguine tone: "I'd undertake now to put the thing through if you
could only put me on the track of that cyanide."

Granice's heart sank. Yes--there was the weak spot; he had felt
it from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that