It was only after Sergeant Dennis McNerney had dropped the very last clue, that Witherspoon finally abandoned his settled purpose of tracing down Arthur Ferris' supposed connection with the crime which swept Randall Clayton out of the world.

"It's no use, sir!" muttered the sergeant, "He was capable of anything, but he stands clear of the whole thing!" The prosperous sergeant had sifted to the very dregs the fullest confessions of the passionate-hearted Hungarian beauty, and the defenceless Leah.
The complete history of "August Meyer" in Brooklyn had been traced out, and McNerney triumphantly demonstrated the uselessness of further search in No.

192 Layte Street.
The old mansion had been in every way changed, and the basement was now the abode of swarming Celestials, who had tinkered its space up to suit themselves.

There were no traces of the crime left! And so, reluctantly, Manager Witherspoon ceased to pry into the private life of Arthur Ferris.

McNerney stoutly maintained the thesis to the last, that Ferris and Fritz Braun were strangers.
"The women both prove it," urged the officer.
"And yet some still unfathomed game of Ferris made him Clayton's secret enemy.