guilt of Stephen Roland, and wondered why he had allowed his mind to
wander off the topic and waste time with other suspicions, for which
he now saw there was no real excuse. He had not the time, he felt, to
investigate the subject personally, but he flattered himself he knew
exactly the man to put on Roland's track, and, instead of going himself
to Chicago, he sent off the following despatch:--

"Meet me to-morrow morning, without fail, at the Gibson House. Answer."

Before midnight he had his answer, and next morning he met a man in whom
he had the most implicit confidence, and who had, as he said, the rare
and valuable gift of keeping his mouth shut.

"You see this portrait?" Stratton said, handing to the other a
photograph of Stephen Roland. "Now, I do not know how many hundred
chemist shops there are in Cincinnati, but I want you to get a list of
them, and you must not omit the most obscure shop in town. I want you to
visit every drug store there is in the city, show this photograph to the
proprietor and the clerks, and find out if that man bought any chemicals
during the week or two preceding Christmas. Find out what drugs he
bought, and where he bought them, then bring the information to me."

"How much time do you give me on this, Mr. Stratton?" was the question.

"Whatever time you want. I wish the thing done thoroughly and
completely, and, as you know, silence is golden in a case like this."

[Illustration: "How much time do you give me?"]

"Enough said," replied the other, and, buttoning the photograph in his