Frederick dead, apparently killed by a burglar in his own apartments,
was quite understandable: but kidnapped and still alive, another body
substituted for his, resembling him sufficiently to be unrecognised as
a fraud, would be a perfectly senseless procedure. No doubt there had
been a crime committed, its object the attainment of money, but without
question the cost had been the life of Frederick Cavendish.

Yet why was the man Beaton out here? For what purpose had he wired the
La Rue woman to join him? And why had some one already entered her
room and examined the contents of Stella Donovan's bag? To these
queries there seemed to be no satisfactory answers. She must consult
with Westcott, and await an opportunity to make the acquaintance of
Celeste La Rue.

She was still there, her elbows on the window-ledge, her face half
concealed in the hollow of her hands, so lost in thought as to be
oblivious to the flight of time, when the harsh clang of the
dinner-bell from the porch below aroused her to a sense of hunger.

Ten minutes later Timmons, guiltless of any coat, but temporarily
laying aside his pipe as a special act of courtesy, escorted her into
the dining-room and seated her at a table between the two front
windows. Evidently this was reserved for the more distinguished
guests--travelling men and those paying regular day rates--for its only
other occupant was the individual in the check suit whom she vaguely
remembered passing on the street a few hours before.

The two long tables occupying the centre of the room were already well
filled with hungry men indiscriminately attired, not a few coatless and
with rolled-up sleeves, as though they had hurried in from work at the