"I wonder--" he began, and then checked himself, bowed, and turned toward the door. "Had this gentleman a middle name?" he asked, with his hand upon the latch.

"Yes; it was R., I believe; Thomas R. Uliman," replied the Australian.

Sanford bowed again and went out quietly. Then Mr. Ainsworth turned toward the Chief.

"You have a system?" he queried.

"Yes; a very simple and effectual one. We keep the census reports, the directories, and a death record. When these fail, we have other resources; but we usually get at least a clue from these books. This part of the work is simple enough. By to-morrow I think we can give you some information about Thomas Uliman."

There was a moment's silence, then Walter Parks leaned forward:

"Have you anything to tell me concerning my two detectives?" he asked.

"Stanhope and Vernet? Well, not much; but I expect a report from Vernet at any moment. We will have that also to-morrow."

CHAPTER LIV.

A CHIEF'S PERPLEXITIES.

On Wednesday, the day following that which witnessed the arrival of Walter Parks and John Ainsworth, Mr. Follingsbee, seated at a late breakfast, perused a letter, which, judging from the manner of its reception, must have contained something unusual and interesting.

He read it, re-read it, and read it again. Then pushing back his chair, and leaving his repast half finished, he hurried from the breakfast-room, and up stairs, straight to that cosey room which, for many days, had been occupied by a guest never visible below. This guest had also recently turned away from a dainty breakfast, the fragments of which yet remained upon the small table at his elbow, and he was now perusing the morning paper with the bored look of a man who reads only to kill time.

He glanced up as the lawyer entered, but did not rise.

"Well," began his visitor, "at last I have something to wake you up with: orders to march."

He held in his hand the open letter, and standing directly in front of the other, read out its contents with the tone and manner of a man p.r.o.nouncing his own vindication after a long-suffering silence:

DEAR SIR:

At last you may release your voluntary prisoner. It is best that he return at once to W---- place. Let him go quietly and without fear. By afternoon there may be other arrivals, whom he will be glad to welcome. For yourself, be at the Chief's office this day at 4. P.M.

STANHOPE.

The reader paused and looked triumphantly at his audience of one.

"So," commented this audience, "his name is Stanhope."

Mr. Follingsbee started and then laughed.

"I don't think he cared to keep his ident.i.ty from you longer," he said, "otherwise he would not have signed his name. I think this means that the play is about to end"--tapping the letter lightly with his two fingers. "You have heard of d.i.c.k Stanhope, I take it?"

"Stanhope, the detective? Yes; and I am somewhat puzzled. I have always heard of Stanhope in connection with Van Vernet."

"Umph! so has everybody. They're on opposite sides of _this_ case, however. Well, shall you follow Mr. Stanhope's advice?"

"I shall, although his advice reads much like a command. I shall take him at his word, and go at once."

"Now?"

"This very hour, if your carriage is at my disposal."

"That, of course."

"I feel like a puppet in invisible hands"--rising and moving nervously about--"but, having pledged myself to accept the guidance of this eccentric detective, I will do my part."

"Well," said the lawyer dryly, "you seem in a desperate hurry. Be sure you don't overdo it."

"I won't; I'll go home and wait for what is to happen in the afternoon."

Half an hour thereafter, a carriage drew up at the side entrance of the Warburton mansion, and a gentleman leaped out, ran lightly up the steps, opened the door with a latch-key held ready in his hand, and disappeared within. The carriage rolled away the moment its occupant had alighted.

In another moment, a man, who had been lounging on the opposite side of the street, faced about slowly, and sauntered along until he reached the street corner. Turning here he quickened his pace, increasing his speed as he went, until his rapid walk became a swift run just as he turned the second corner.

At ten o'clock of this same morning, the Chief of the detectives is sitting again in his sanctum, his brow knit and frowning, his hands tapping nervously upon the arms of his easy chair, his whole mind absorbed in intensest thought. Usually he meets the problems that come to him with imperturbable calm, and looks them down and through; but to-day the thought that he faces is so disagreeable, so perplexing, so baffling,--and it will not be looked down, nor thought down.

Up to the date of this present perplexity, he has found himself equal to all the emergencies of his profession. Living in a domain of Mysteries, he has been himself King of them all; has held in his hand the clue to each. His men may have worked in the dark, or with only a fragment of light, a glimmer of the truth, to guide them. But he, their Chief, has overlooked their work, seeing beyond their range of vision, and through it, to the end.

Always this had been the case until--yes, he would acknowledge the truth--until this all-demanding Englishman had swooped down upon him with his old, old mystery, and taken from the Agency, for his own eccentric uses, its two best men. Always, until Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope had arrayed themselves as antagonists, in seeking a solution of the same problem.

Following up the train of thought suggested by the re-reading of his diary, the Chief has been suddenly confronted with some unpleasant suspicions and possibilities.

He has pondered everything pertaining to the mystery surrounding Vernet's improper use of his business letter-heads, and his visit to the Warburton mansion in the guise of Augustus Grip. And he has vainly tried to trace the connection between these man[oe]uvres and some of Stanhope's inconsistencies.

In the search, he has made a discovery: Alan Warburton, the uncle of the lost child for whom his men have been vainly searching, and Leslie Warburton, the widow of the late Archibald Warburton, have both sailed for Europe. Business connected with the search has been transacted through Mr. Follingsbee; and this voyage across the sea, at so inopportune a time, has been treated by the lawyer with singular reticence, not to say secrecy.

What could have caused these two to make such a journey at such a time?

Why did Van Vernet enter their house in disguise? Who were the two that had sailed to Europe by proxy? What was this mystery which, he instinctively felt, had taken root on the night of the fruitless Raid?

"It was young Warburton who had secured Vernet's services, and afterwards dismissed him in such summary fashion. It was Mr. Follingsbee who had engaged Stanhope, for that self-same night, _for a masquerade_.

If I could question Stanhope," he muttered. "Oh! I need not wait for that; I'll interview Follingsbee."

He dashed off a note, asking the lawyer to wait upon him that afternoon, and having dispatched it, was about to resume the study of his new problem, when Sanford entered with a memorandum in his hand.

"Beale has come in," he said in a low tone. "He has been the rounds, and gives a full report of Vernet's movements."

"Has Beale been out alone?"

"Not since the first two hours; he has three men out now."

"Phew! Well, read your minutes, Sanford; I see you have taken them down from word of mouth."

"Yes, it was the shortest way. Vernet is watching three localities."