CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE YACHT "RAMBLER." Four days after cobbler Mulholland had sold out his little outfit to a stranger, James Lennon, whose dingy scrawl, "Shoes Fixed While You Wait," now stared Mrs.Rachel Meyer in the face, there was a circle of three earnest conspirators plotting in the interests of justice in the library of Counsellor Stillwell.
The great house was silent on the golden afternoon, of the famille Stillwell were busied in their varied occupations.

The old lawyer in his William Street legal cave, the ladies driving or chasing the bubble pleasure.
Around the library table were gathered a trinity of souls all eager to avenge the unrequited death of Randall Clayton.

The tired-out executors were now on their way to Detroit, sharing with the puzzled journals and the baffled police the hope that "something would finally turn up in the Clayton mystery." Down in the Western Trading Company's office, the urbane Robert Wade, now shining out again in full plumage, explained to the occasional disgruntled stockholder that the Fidelity Company had paid in their fifty thousand dollars; that many of the largest cheques had been stopped, and that the Worthington Estate had nobly offered to recoup the company for the final deficiency from the extra fall dividend on their own stock, which was to gladden all hearts.
"Poor Hugh Worthington!" sighed Wade.

"If he had only lived to see his cherished plan for freight control in operation.

Our stock has risen fifty-five points on the new deal.