He was not at all ruffled by the sudden taking-off of the man he supposed to be his patron. He had not made a single step toward the clearing-up of the mystery surrounding the goings and comings of Mrs. Archibald Warburton. His discovery of Stanhope at the masked ball, and his machinations consequent upon that discovery, together with the fiasco of the Raid and all its after-results, had made it impossible that he could interest himself in what he considered "merely a bit of domestic intrigue." He was not sorry that Archibald Warburton was dead, and he resolved to profit by that death. Since the discovery of Alan Warburton's picture, Van Vernet's mind had been drifting toward dangerous conclusions. Suppose this wealthy aristocrat and the Sailor assassin should prove the same, what would follow? Might he not naturally conclude that a secret existed between Alan Warburton and the Francoises, and, if so, what was the nature of that secret? Why was Alan Warburton, if it were he, absent from his house on a night of festivity, a night when he should have been making merry with his brother's guests? If he were in league with those outlaws of the slums, it was not for plunder; surely the Warburtons were rich enough. What, then, was the secret which that stately mansion concealed? "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush," quoted Vernet, grimly. "That Sailor assassin first--the Warburton skeleton first. They are almost under my hand, and once I grasp them, my clutch is upon the Warburton millions, too." The morning was yet early, there was quiet in the street and Van Vernet, wearing for convenience sake the uniform of a policeman, paced slowly down toward the house of mourning. As he neared the street-corner, two women, beggars evidently, came hurrying around the corner straight toward him. At sight of his uniform the larger and elder of the two, a stout woman with a vicious face, a sharp eye, and head closely muffled in a ragged shawl, started slightly. Then with a furtive glance and a fawning obeisance, she hurried her companion past him, and down the street. This companion, a younger woman, her face covered with bruises and red with dissipation, walked with a painful limp, and the hesitating air of the blind, her eyes tightly shut and the lids quivering. "Playing blind," muttered Vernet, as they hastened past him. "If I were the regular officer here, I'd have them out of this; as it is--" He gave a shrug of indifference and glanced back over his shoulder. The two women had halted before the Warburton mansion, and the elder one was looking up at the crape-adorned door. Then she glanced backward toward the officer, who seemed busy contemplating the antics of a pair of restive horses that were coming down the street. Seeing him thus employed, she darted down the basement-stairs, dragging her stumbling companion after her.