Now, in consequence of the earth’s revolution in its orbit, or path, round the sun, the sun has the appearance of moving very slowly in the heavens in a direction from east to west. At noon to-morrow the sun will be a short distance to the east of the point in the heavens at which it is seen at noon to-day, so that when the earth has made one complete turn it will still have to turn four minutes longer before the sun can again be seen exactly south. [Illustration] THE MAN AND THE HOUR; Or, Sheridan Keene’s Clever Artifice. By ALDEN F. BRADSHAW. CHAPTER I. THE DEATH OF JACOB MOORE. “Chief Inspector Watts, I want you to do me a favor.” Chief Watts met the request with a rather encouraging smile. “I have not forgotten, Mr. French, that I am considerably your debtor in that line,” he genially rejoined, with some significance. “Well, it is not on that account, Chief Watts, that I appeal to you at just this time. I never charge up favors against my friends. But I am confronted just now by a case which, while I am still ignorant of the immediate particulars, I fear will require exceedingly shrewd and delicate handling.” The expression on the face of the chief inspector changed slightly. “Is it a criminal case, Mr. French?” he asked quietly. “It is a case of murder, Chief Watts, or so, at least, it is here stated,” replied Mr. Hamilton French, one of the brightest of Boston’s legal lights and a noted criminal lawyer. “Here is a telegram I received less than ten minutes ago.” “Read it, please.” “It reads: ‘Jacob Moore was murdered last night. Come at once.’ It is signed by Moore’s nephew, a man named Richard Thorpe, who has lived with Moore off and on since his boyhood.” “Who is this Moore? Is he an acquaintance of yours?” “Oh, yes. I have been Moore’s legal adviser for something like twenty years, and am so well informed of his family affairs that this crime, if Moore has actually been murdered, at once suggests to me possibilities and complications of a decidedly serious nature.” “And what is the service you desire of me?” asked Chief Watts gravely. The eminent lawyer, a man close upon sixty years, hurriedly consulted his watch. It was then about nine o’clock, a clear, cold morning in November, with the mercury out of doors well below freezing. The scene of this interview was the private office of Chief Inspector Watts, in the headquarters building, in Pemberton Square. “I will tell you why I have called upon you, Chief Watts,” replied the lawyer. “In the light of facts already in my possession, I anticipate serious trouble from this case, if it proves to be of a nature reported.” “Trouble in getting at the truth?” “Precisely.” “I see.” “Now, I want the help of a detective--a man of brains and energy, one who is capable of noting those obscure bits of evidence which escape the investigations of most men, and who, having discovered them, can analyze them and deduce the most probable conclusion.”