in charge of Thomas Kettridge, a half uncle to Mrs. Darcy.

The place had been opened for business again after the funeral, and
customers came in, carefully avoiding the place where a dark stain
could be seen in the floor--a stain made all the more conspicuous
because of the light-colored boards about it.

The colonel made a careful examination of the premises, and had
described to him the exact position of the body, being told all that
went on that tragic morning.

It was after this, and following some busy hours spent in various parts
of the city, that the defective sent to one of his trusted men in New
York this telegram:


"Spotty Morgan's vacation is over. Have him spend a few days with you
until I can invite him to my country place."


"I hate to do it, after what he did for me," mused the colonel with a
sigh. "But business is business from now on. I'm officially in the
case, and I wasn't before."

Having sent the somewhat cryptic message, the old detective sat in his
room and took from his pocket a little green book.

"Well, old friend, I guess I'm not going to have much use for you from
now on," he remarked dolefully. He glanced to where his rods and flies
were gathering dust. "Nor you, either," he went on. "Now for a last