There was not a single suggestion of foul play; not a word to point the direction of the supposed fugitive's evasion; not a clue from the baffled police.
It was the old story of a double life, the wreckage of a promising career.

"Just a plain, ordinary thief was Mr.Randall Clayton," said one acute observer; "his case is only extraordinary from the amount taken.

And it seems that he robbed for the lucre itself, as the most careful inquiry divulges no stain upon his private life.
Another case of the 'model young man' gone wrong." Witherspoon had thrown the journals into his trunk as a precaution, and was smothering his disgust at their heartlessness, when Arthur Ferris, white-faced, dashed into his room.
"What has happened?
Have you found his body ?" cried the Detroit man, springing up.

"I may have to leave you here to represent me privately," gasped Ferris, as with a shaking hand he extended a telegram.

"Read that!" Witherspoon gasped, in a sudden dismay, as he read the crushing news.