“No!” shouted Ross. “I didn’t see any one. I didn’t see anything. I never heard of your Ives. Go and ask some one else. I’m busy!” “I don’t want to bother you,” said the stranger, grown very mild. “I can see you’re busy. But it’s a pretty serious thing. You see, Ives came to Stamford on Tuesday. I’ve traced him that far. And after that—he’s disappeared.” “Well, do you think I’ve got him hidden here?” “My name’s Donnelly,” the stranger went on. “And I’ve come out here to find Ives.” “All right! I wish you luck!” “I don’t know,” said Donnelly, thoughtfully. “Maybe it won’t be so lucky—for some people.” He was not looking at Ross now; his cold blue eyes were staring straight before him. “But I think I’ll find him, all the same,” he declared, gently. “Ives was the man under the sofa,” thought Ross. XIV Ross could not understand why that notion came as a shock to him. Naturally, the man under the sofa had a name; every one had. Yet, directly he thought of that figure as “Martin Ives,” instead of “the man,” the whole affair grew ten times more tragic and horrible—and ten times more dangerous. “A man” might disappear, but not Martin Ives. Martin Ives was real, he had friends; he must have lived somewhere. He would be sought for—and found. “This Donnelly—” thought Ross. “He’s got this far already. And he’ll keep on.” In his mind he envisaged the inexorable progress of the search. Step by step, hour by hour. If this man went away, another would come. The awful march of retribution had begun. Nothing could stop it. “Murder will out.” His anger, his impatience, had quite vanished now. He could not resent Donnelly’s presence, because he was inevitable. He seemed to Ross the very personification of destiny, not to be eluded, not to be mollified. He looked at him and, as he had expected, found the cold blue eyes regarding him. “Do you think you can help me?” asked Donnelly. “I don’t see how,” said Ross. “I don’t know the fellow you’re looking for. I’ll have to get along, now. Got to drive down to the station.” “Well,” said Donnelly, blandly, “I can wait.” “Not here!” said Ross, with energy. “They wouldn’t like—” “Oh, no, not here!” said the other. “See you later. So long!” And off he went. Ross watched his burly figure tramping along the driveway until he was out of sight; then he made haste to get himself ready, took out the car, locked the garage, and drove up to the house. It was much too early. There he sat, shut up in the snug little sedan, with the snow falling outside, as if he were some unfortunate victim of an enchantment, shut up in a glass cage. And he began to think, now, of what lay immediately before him. “I’ll have to make some sort of excuse to Mr. Solway for going away,” he thought. “A lie, of course. I wish to Heaven I didn’t have to lie to _him_. Then I’ll get the child, and clear out. I’ll find some sort of home for her. Phyllis Barron will help me.”