The Expert turned sharply, and without further ceremony whisked out of the room.

For some moments the Chief sat wrinkling his brow and gazing upon the two letters outspread before him.

Then he took up the elegantly-written epistle, folded it carefully, and thrust it in among those in the rubber-bound packet. This done he rang his bell, and called for Sanford.

The latter came promptly, and stood mutely before his Chief.

"Sanford," said that gentleman, pointing to the packet upon the table, "you may try your hand as an Expert."

"How, sir?"

"Take those letters, and this," pushing forward the outspread scrawl, "and see if you can figure out who wrote it."

Sanford took up the packet, looked earnestly at his superior, and hesitated.

"Carnegie has given his opinion," said the Chief, in answer to this look. "I want to see how you agree."

Sanford took up the scrawl, scanned it slowly, folded it and slipped it underneath the rubber of the packet.

"Is that all, sir?" he asked quietly.

"That is all. Take your time, Sanford; take your time."

Sanford bowed and went slowly from the room.

A few moments longer the Chief sat thinking, a look of annoyance upon his face. Then he slowly arose, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a small, thick diary, reseated himself.

"I must review this business," he muttered. "There's something about it that I don't--quite--understand."

He turned the leaves of the diary quickly, running the pages backward, until he reached those containing an account of the events of one or two days five weeks old upon the calendar. Here he singled out the notes concerning the Raid and its results, following which were the outlines of the accounts of that night as given him by Vernet and Stanhope.

Now, in giving his account of that night, Van Vernet had said little of his experience with Alan Warburton, and at the masquerade. And in giving his account of the Raid and its failure, he had omitted the fact that he had accepted and used "Silly Charlie" as a guide, speaking of him only as a spy and rescuer. Hence the Chief had gained anything but a correct idea of the part actually played by this bogus idiot.

On the other hand, Stanhope had described at length the events of the masquerade, as they related to himself, but had said little concerning Leslie and the nature of the service she required of him, referring to her only as Mr. Follingsbee's client. He had related his misadventures with the Troubadour and the Chinaman, leaving upon their shoulders the entire blame of his failure and non-appearance at the Raid. And he had never once mentioned Vernet's presence, nor the part the latter had played to gain the precedence with his Chief.

In thus omitting important facts, each had his motive; and the omissions had not, at the time, been noted by the Chief. Now, however, as he read and re-read his memoranda--recalling to mind how he had shared with Vernet his chagrin at the failure of the Raid, and laughed with Stanhope over his comical mishaps--he seemed to read something between the lines, and his face grew more and more perplexed as he closed the diary, and sat intently thinking.

"There's a mystery here that courts investigation," he muttered, as he arose at last and put away the diary. "I'd give something, now, for twenty minutes' talk with d.i.c.k Stanhope."

Early on the following morning, Sanford presented himself before his Chief, the bundle of letters in his hand, and a troubled look upon his face.

"Well, Sanford, is it done?"

"I wish," said Sanford, as he placed the packet upon the table, "I wish it had never been begun--at least by me."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to believe the evidence of my senses."

"There's a sentiment for a detective! Out with it man; what have you found?"

Sanford took two papers from his pocket and held them in his hand irresolutely.

"I hope I am wrong," he said; "if I am--"

"If you are, it will rest between us two. Out with it, now."

"There's only one man among us that I can trace this letter to,"

beginning to unfold the troublesome scrawl, "and he--" He opened the second paper and laid it before his Chief.

The latter dropped his eyes to the vexatious paper and said, mechanically: "Vernet!"

"I'm sorry," began Sanford, regretfully. "I tried--"

"You need not be," interrupted the Chief. "It's Carnegie's verdict too."

Sanford sat down in the nearest seat, and looked earnestly at his Chief, saying nothing.

After a moment of silence, the latter said:

"Sanford, I want Vernet shadowed."

Sanford started and looked as if he doubted his own ears.

"I don't want him interfered with," went on the Chief slowly, "and watching him will be a delicate job; but I wish it done. I want to be informed of every move he makes. You must manage this business. I shall depend upon you."

CHAPTER LIII.

JOHN AINSWORTH'S STORY.

The Chief of the detectives was now furnished with ample food for thought, but the opportunity for meditation seemed remote.

While he sat pondering over the discovery of Carnegie and Sanford, two visitors were announced: Walter Parks, the English patron of Stanhope and Vernet, and John Ainsworth, the returned Australian.

An accident of travel had thrown these two together, almost at the moment when one was landing from, and the other about to embark for, Australia. And the name of John Ainsworth, boldly displayed upon some baggage just set on sh.o.r.e, had put Walter Parks on the scent of its owner. The two men were not slow in understanding each other.

As they now sat in the presence of the Chief, these two men with faces full of earnestness and strength, he mentally p.r.o.nounced them fine specimens of bronzed and bearded middle age.

Walter Parks was tall and athletic, without one ounce of flesh to spare: with dark features, habitually stern in their expression; a firm chin, and well-developed upper cranium, that made it easy for one to comprehend how naturally and obstinately the man might cling to an idea, or continue a search, for more than twice twenty years; and how impossible it would be for him to abandon the one or lose his enthusiasm for the other.

John Ainsworth was cast in a different mould. Less tall than the Englishman, and of fuller proportions, his face was not wanting in strength, but it lacked the rugged outlines that distinguished the face of the other; his once fair hair was almost white, and his regular features wore a look of habitual melancholy. It was the face of a man who, having lost some great good out of his life, can never forget what that life might have been, had this good gift remained.

"I received your letter," the Chief said, after a brief exchange of formalities, "but I failed to understand it, Mr. Parks, and was finally forced to conclude that you may have written a previous one--"

"I did," interrupted the Englishman.