CHAPTER XII.
THE LONELY PURSUER.
Arthur Ferris was secluded from all callers in his rooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel until late on the morning when a million people read the "featured" details of the mysterious murder of Randall Clayton.
Exhausted by the mental struggle with his now defiant wife, he yet retained enough of his cunning to heed Policeman McNerney's roughly-given advice.
Ferris' rooms were littered with the score of newspapers over which he had been busied since daybreak, and his breakfast stood still untasted at his side.

He wavered between his desire for self-protection and his fear of the hard-featured Stillwell.
In his own heart Ferris cared not a whit whether Clayton had been waylaid by accidental thugs, betrayed at the bank, duped by some insidious woman, or slain by an inner conspiracy of the employees.
"The money is gone, the cheques will probably be replaced," he grumbled.

"Damn the company's interests! I am glad of their loss.
The Worthington Estate will probably make it good.
"But I must go over and show up.

I cannot afford to be suspected here.

God knows what game is on, with Stillwell now as chief of scouts!" He had decided to make a brief visit at the office, and to then visit Stillwell, and resign his vice-presidency, on the ground of ill-health.