Five weeks have passed since the fateful masquerade. Five weeks since Vernet and Stanhope entered, in rivalry, the service of Walter Parks, the bearded Englishman. Five weeks since that last named and eccentric individual set sail for far-off Australia. Matters are moving slowly at the Agency. Van Vernet is seldom seen there now, and Stanhope is not seen at all. In his private office the Chief of the detectives sits musing; not placidly, as is usual with him, but with a growing restlessness, and a dark frown upon his broad, high brow. The thing which has caused the disquiet and the frown, lies upon the desk beside him, just under his uneasy right hand. A letter; a letter from California, from Walter Parks. It was brief and business-like; it explained nothing; and it puzzled the astute Chief not a little. John Ainsworth is better; so much better that we shall start in two days for your city. His interests are identical with mine, and he may be able, in some way, to throw a little light upon the Arthur Pearson mystery. Walter Parks had set out for Australia, drawn thither by an advertisement mentioning the name of Arthur Pearson. It had also contained the name of John Ainsworth; but this had seemed of secondary interest to the queer Englishman. He had distinctly stated that he knew nothing of John Ainsworth; had never seen him. And yet here he was, if this letter were not a hoax, journeying eastward at that very moment, in company with this then unknown man. Evidently, he had not visited Australia; that he could have done so was scarcely possible. And he was coming back with this John Ainsworth to urge on the search for the murderer of Arthur Pearson. They would hope much, expect much, from Vernet and Stanhope. And what had been done? Since the day when Stanhope had suddenly appeared in his presence, to announce his readiness to begin work upon the Arthur Pearson case, nothing had been heard from him. "You will not see me again," he had said, "until I can tell who killed Arthur Pearson." And he was keeping his word. Four weeks had passed since Stanhope had made his farewell announcement, and nothing was known of his whereabouts. Where was he? What was he doing? What had he done? It was not like Stanhope to make sweeping statements. In proffering his services to Walter Parks, he had said: "I'll do my level best for you." But he had not promised to succeed. Why, then, had he said, scarce five days later: "I shall not return until I have found the criminal." What had he done, or discovered, or guessed at, during those intervening days? Something, it must have been, or else--perhaps, after all, it was a mere defiance to Van Vernet; his way of announcing a reckless resolve to succeed or never return to own his failure. Dick Stanhope was a queer fellow, and he _had_ been sadly cut up by Vernet's falling off. The Chief gave up the riddle, and turned to his desk.