“Yes, all of the bottom facts,” Nick allowed, smiling significantly. “It is hinted, nevertheless, that Senator Barclay and a young government engineer in the war department, one Harold Garland, were somewhat involved in the matter,” said Fallon. “Is that true?” “Really, Fallon, I cannot say,” said Nick, still smiling. Detective Fallon laughed lightly, knowing well enough that Nick could have informed him concerning every part of the case, if so inclined. He took no exceptions to his reticence, however, and inquired, after a moment: “Is there any clew to Margate’s whereabouts?” “Not that I know of,” Nick admitted. “The police throughout the country are on the watch for him. He is a very keen, crafty, and elusive fellow, however, and is better known in Europe, where he has done most of his knavish work. But we shall get him, Fallon, sooner or later. If----” “Here we are,” Fallon interrupted. “There is the church.” The touring car had turned a corner, bringing the sacred edifice into view. It occupied the corner beyond and stood somewhat back from the street, both front and side. In the rear, fronting on the side street, was the dwelling occupied by Father Cleary, whose only servant was an elderly housekeeper, one Honora Kane, who had been a widow many years. The church, the rectory, and the surrounding grounds extended back to the next street, from which they were divided by a stone wall, the rear grounds being adorned with several old shade trees, the wide-spreading branches of which mingled with those in the side grounds of the adjoining estate. Nick took in all these features of the scene while approaching the rectory, on the sidewalk in front of which a policeman was pacing to and fro. He touched his helmet when Fallon sprang from the car, but evidently he did not know the face of the more famous detective. “What has been done, Bagley?” asked Fallon, pausing briefly. “Nothing, sir, except to keep it quiet,” said the policeman. “We have been waiting for you. Grady is inside.” “We’ll go in,” said Fallon. “One moment,” Nick interposed, detaining him. “The murder has not leaked out, Bagley, I take it?” “No, sir.” “I see that there are no inquisitive people hanging around here. Have you seen any one, by the way, who appeared to have an interest in the place?” “No, sir; I have not.” “That’s all, Bagley; thank you.” “I see the point, Nick,” Fallon remarked, as they entered the grounds fronting the rectory. “Holy smoke!” Bagley muttered, starting after them. “That must be Nick Carter. Great guns! there’ll be nothing to the case, if he is on it.” The two detectives were admitted to the hall by a pale young woman in a calico wrapper and a long gingham apron. Her tear-filled eyes, together with the low moans and sobs of a corpulent woman in an adjoining room, evinced the grief and distress of both. “Let me take the ribbons, Fallon,” Nick said quietly. “We may go over the traces if we drive too fast.”