doctor as a man of eminent standing and respectability. It was
hardly natural that he should suspect anything sinister to grow
out of this meeting of two refined scholars. He attached no great
importance to the trend of their conversation. It was strange, to
be sure; but he felt, no doubt, that living in their own world
they had a way and a language of their own. He was no scholar.

Still, he could think. The man Rhamda had made an assertion that
he could not quite uncover. It puzzled him. Something told him
that for the safety of his old friend it might be well for him to
shadow the strange pair to the city.

When the next train pulled out for the pier the two scholars were
seated in the forward part of the car. In the last seat was a man
deeply immersed in a morning paper.

It is rather unfortunate. In the natural delicacy of the situation
Jerome could not crowd too closely. He had no certainty of
trouble; no proof whatever; he was known to the professor. The
best he could do was to keep aloof and follow their movements. At
the ferry building they hailed a taxi and started up Market
Street. Jerome watched them. In another moment he had another
driver and was winding behind in their wheel tracks. The cab made
straight for Chatterton Place. In front of a substantial two-story
house it drew up. The two men alighted. Jerome's taxi passed them.

They were then at the head of the steps; a woman of slender beauty
with a wonderful loose fold of black hair was talking. It seemed
to the detective that her voice was fearful, of a pregnant
warning, that she was protesting. Nevertheless, the old men