Meanwhile, in New York, Mr. Barnes was still burrowing into everything that seemed to have any connection direct or otherwise with the mystery, or mysteries, that baffled him. Of one thing he had satisfied himself beyond all doubt. That was that Mr. Fisher had not been implicated in the train robbery. His spy had found that he had been absent from the city during three days at the time of the crime, but this very fact had been shown to be his safeguard. By some skilful work the man discovered, that during that time he had simply been off shooting ducks, in a part of the country where it would have been impossible for him to be an accomplice. This simple fact should not have been hard to discover, were it not that Fisher had kept his trip a secret. This for some time puzzled the detective, but finally he followed him out of the city, and practically accompanied him on a similar outing, after which he learned that his sister was morbidly opposed to all killing, whether for sport or for a livelihood. It was to humor this idea that her brother made his excursions in secret. The spy learned from the man from whom the dogs were hired that Mr. Fisher had used them in December. So that left him out of the score, or at least so it seemed. It was still possible that he was implicated in the ruby robbery, though save that he was present there seemed nothing against him. Mr. Barnes did not entirely leave him out of the account. Thus practically the detective made no progress, and was chagrined to be compelled to admit it. Finally, however, an idea occurred to him, upon which the more he dwelt, the more fascinated he became with it. To put it into practice, however, he felt that he must await the return of Mr. Mitchel. He thought he would injure his cause by seeking him and so disturbing him during his pleasure trip. The Mitchels did not keep their promise to go to the White Mountains, but on the contrary prolonged their western travel, so that it was November before they were at home again, and temporarily quartered at the Fifth Avenue. A few days after, Mr. Barnes sent up his card, and as usual, was cordially received. "Any news of my wife's ruby?" asked Mr. Mitchel, grasping the detective warmly by the hand. "No, Mr. Mitchel. I am sorry to say that I am utterly unable to prove any of my theories about that. But I have come to a set determination, and one that to you may seem a peculiar one. I have come to ask your assistance in the murder case." "Why, certainly, I will help you. Did I not tell you so at the very outset? Have I not always been willing to talk freely to you?" "You have, but as long as I thought that you yourself might have committed the crime, how could I come to you to ask you to assist me?" "Then I am to understand that at present you do not suspect me?" "I have come to that conclusion at last, and wish now that I had done so sooner."