He half supported, half lifted the paralyzed man up the three flights of stairs, and opened the door of the loft. The pick was leaning against the wall, where he had left it. "Look around, and see if you recognize anything." The old man's eyes fell upon the implement in a half-frightened way, and then lifted themselves interrogatively to Mulrady's face. "Do you know that pick?" Slinn raised it in his trembling hands. "I think I do; and yet--" "Slinn! is it yours?" "No," he said hurriedly. "Then what makes you think you know it?" "It has a short handle like one I've seen." "And is isn't yours?" "No. The handle of mine was broken and spliced. I was too poor to buy a new one." "Then you say that this pick which I found in my shaft is not yours?" "Yes." "Slinn!" The old man passed his hand across his forehead, looked at Mulrady, and dropped his eyes. "It is not mine," he said simply. "That will do," said Mulrady, gravely. "And you will not speak of this again?" said the old man, timidly. "I promise you--not until I have some more evidence." He kept his word, but not before he had extorted from Slinn as full a description of Masters as his imperfect memory and still more imperfect knowledge of his former neighbor could furnish. He placed this, with a large sum of money and the promise of a still larger reward, in the hands of a trustworthy agent. When this was done he resumed his old relations with Slinn, with the exception that the domestic letters of Mrs. Mulrady and Mamie were no longer a subject of comment, and their bills no longer passed through his private secretary's hands. Three months passed; the rainy season had ceased, the hillsides around Mulrady's shaft were bridal-like with flowers; indeed, there were rumors of an approaching fashionable marriage in the air, and vague hints in the "Record" that the presence of a distinguished capitalist might soon be required abroad. The face of that distinguished man did not, however, reflect the gayety of nature nor the anticipation of happiness; on the contrary, for the past few weeks, he had appeared disturbed and anxious, and that rude tranquillity which had characterized him was wanting. People shook their heads; a few suggested speculations; all agreed on extravagance. One morning, after office hours, Slinn, who had been watching the careworn face of his employer, suddenly rose and limped to his side. "We promised each other," he said, in a voice trembling with emotion; "never to allude to our talk of Christmas Eve again unless we had other proofs of what I told you then. We have none; I don't believe we'll ever have any more. I don't care if we ever do, and I break that promise now because I cannot bear to see you unhappy and know that this is the cause." Mulrady made a motion of deprecation, but the old man continued--