Witherspoon and I have toiled in secret since the disappearance of Clayton.
"With you, we will win; without you, the murderer may escape.

One hint of danger, and he would take flight and be lost in Europe's uncounted millions, perhaps in Asia." Alice Worthington's beaming eyes told of her new pledge of secrecy, as she stood, a beautiful Peri, finger on lip, while Witherspoon brought the stalwart McNerney into the library.
The young officer, in plain, dark clothes, with severely shaven lip, was the ideal of a resolute young Irish priest, saving his Roman collar.
But his steady eye kindled as Witherspoon tersely recounted to the astonished heiress the discovery of the pocketbook, the picture label, the secret visits to the deserted mansion, No.

192 Layte Street, and the results of all his private researches.
The policeman sprang to his feet as the lawyer logically recounted his casual visits to the Newport Art Gallery, on finding a similar Danube picture in the window.
"In my opinion," sharply concluded Jack, "this Adolph Lilienthal knows something.

His glib lie that there was no duplicate of the artist proof in America fell flat when I reminded him that I had recently seen one in New York.

After looking over his memorandums, he admitted that he had sold one to Mr.Randall Clayton some weeks before his unfortunate death.
"Now," the lawyer cried, with positive deduction, "that picture had been addressed to Fraeulein Irma Gluyas, No.