She left him at the entrance to Deadman's Court, and he gave her a bright smile to cheer her; but when she was out of sight he murmured again, "There's trouble coming, there's trouble coming." He feared he knew not what; every hidden danger seemed to grow, and the dark clouds to deepen. How to ward this danger from Florence? This was his aim and hope, and to this end he was continually nerving himself. Up to the present nothing but perplexity and mystery had attended his search in the house of the murdered man. There were the bottles of wine. On the first occasion he had mechanically counted seventy-six bottles, on the second occasion seventy-five, and now there were but seventy-four. "Either I am out of my senses," he thought, "or some person has been twice in the house since I forced an entrance into it." Wildly improbable as was the suggestion he found it impossible to reject it. True, he was not the only person who had been there these last two days. Scotland Yard was astir, and had sent detectives and policemen, to whom free access was granted by Dick. These officials made themselves very busy, but for the most part kept a still tongue. Plans of the room were drawn, and every inch of the walls and floors and staircases was examined. When it was proposed to photograph the blood-stained footprints made by Dick, he looked on calmly, and assisted in the preparations. On this Monday afternoon the undertaker's men were waiting for Dick in the Square, and they followed him upstairs with the coffin. It had been a gruesome task, and he felt as if he could not breathe freely till the body was taken to its last resting place. Then there was the safe, of which he had found the key. During his service with Samuel Boyd this safe had been the receptacle of all the documents of value and of all the record books belonging to the dead man--bank book, bill book, ledger, mortgage deeds, undue bills, etc.; he expected to see these articles in the safe, but to his astonishment it contained only a few unimportant papers. At five o'clock the undertaker's men had departed, and Dick with a last look around also took his departure. As he pulled the street door behind him he heard a familiar cough, and a little hand was slid into his. Gracie's hand. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Dick," she said, clinging to him. "I've been everywhere to find you." "Has your father come back?" he asked, in sudden expectation that she brought him news of the missing man. "No such luck. You didn't come to see us yesterday." "I was too busy, Gracie. Are you any better?" "Ever so much." Her pallid face and the sunken rims round her large black eyes did not confirm the statement. "I can't rest, Dick, I can't rest. Is he caught?" "Who, Gracie?" "The man that murdered Mr. Boyd?" "No; and God knows when he will be."