The judge gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Yes, that is a stumper, I must admit. But,” he added, “maybe Miss Worthington could explain that. I feel confident that she could. Why don’t you go to Chicago on the very next train and ask her, Inspector Sheridan? I wouldn’t lose any time in clearing this thing up if I were you.” “But suppose I ask her, and she admits----” “Bah!” interrupted the lawyer impatiently; “shame on you for an unworthy lover! I’m willing to wager everything I’ve got that that little girl won’t admit to you that she’s a thief--because she won’t have to.” His confident air was infectious. “Thank you!” said Owen. “You’re quite right, of course. Dallas couldn’t be a thief! I’m going to take the first train out.” CHAPTER XX. SHOWING THEM. When Owen Sheridan arrived at Chicago, the following day, he proceeded at once to the address given in the telegram. He guessed that this was the boarding house in which Chester Worthington, Dallas’ brother, resided, and as it was Sunday, there would be, of course, no use in looking up that young man at his place of business. No. 89 Dulwich Street proved to be a nice-looking house on a quiet street. Owen hoped to find Dallas there, for it seemed probable that the girl while in Chicago would stay under the same roof as her brother. But as he drew near he suddenly stopped short, and, uttering an exclamation of astonishment, darted into a convenient doorway to avoid being seen by a man who was ascending the stoop. This man was stout, red-faced, flashily dressed, and wore a gaudy necktie, from the center of which flashed a huge diamond. It was the sight of him which had caused Owen such agitation, for he recognized the fellow immediately as Jake Hines, fugitive from justice, and his unsuccessful rival in love. “Good heavens!” gasped Owen. “What can this mean? Is it possible that the rascal can have anything to do with Dallas’ coming to Chicago? It’s a lucky thing I’m here.” He waited until the door of No. 89 had closed behind Hines, then he came out of his place of concealment, and hurried toward the house. A pleasant-looking woman responded to his ring at the doorbell, and he questioned her abruptly: “That man who just came in here--where did he go?” “You mean Mr. Fitzgerald, I presume?” “That’s probably the name he goes under,” said Owen, realizing that it was not unlikely that Mr. Hines, being a fugitive from justice, had assumed an alias. “Does he reside here?” The woman regarded her excited visitor with cold suspicion. “Before I answer any questions, sir, I must know who you are and what business----” Owen, without waiting for her to finish, displayed his badge, at sight of which her manner changed. “Oh, is that the kind of a man Mr. Fitzgerald is?” she exclaimed. “Well, I’m not surprised to hear it. I took a dislike to him the first time I saw him.” “Oh, then he does live here?”