Mrs. Albert Kalin was the housekeeper for the three men. Sidney, being a bachelor, had always lived with his father, but Albert had married and moved away from the parental roof. Then, when his mother died, Jonas had called him back and practically turned the house over to him and his wife, reserving only one large room for himself. In this he had his own little library, and to this he frequently retired for long evenings of solitude, for, while not a recluse, he was a man who really needed no other companionship than his own thoughts and often seemed to avoid the society of others. He was not at home, however, when his sons arrived for dinner. Mrs. Albert Kalin said he had brought home two or three bundles early in the afternoon, had gone directly to his room, where he remained for about an hour, and had then appeared with a valise. “I never saw him look so haggard and distressed,” she explained. “He kissed me most affectionately and said he had some business to attend to and would not be home to-night.” Late that evening Sidney Kalin went to his father’s club, where he saw Benson and learned enough to send him to police headquarters. There was no publicity, but a search for the missing man was begun at once. The circumstances were, to say the least, disquieting. At the moment this search was begun Jonas Kalin was crossing Lake Michigan on one of the large steamers, and his actions were such as to attract the attention of some of the other passengers. It was a Friday night boat and was crowded with excursionists bound for a Saturday and Sunday outing in Michigan. Jonas had a state-room, but he merely put his valise in it, and then paced the deck, occasionally stopping to lean over the rail and look down at the water. Once or twice he sought a secluded corner and sat for a time buried in thought, but he moved away the moment others stopped near him. About eleven o’clock, as he passed through the main cabin, he saw a woman putting a little boy to bed on a sofa, and he offered her his state-room. “I’m very grateful to you, sir,” she replied, “but we couldn’t think of taking it. You’ll need it yourself.” “I shall not sleep to-night,” he said. “It will be vacant unless you take it. Shove the valise into a corner somewhere and I’ll get it in the morning.” He dropped the state-room key on a chair and disappeared through a door leading to the deck before she could make further protest, but his face haunted her all that night. In the morning, after some search, she found him huddled up on a camp-stool against the rail of the forward deck, and she thanked him again. “You don’t look well,” she ventured. “Can I do anything for you?” “It’s not a question of what any one can do for me,” he answered, “but of what I can do for others.” “I don’t understand you, sir,” she said. “It’s a good thing you don’t,” he returned, and, fearing that she had to deal with a crazy man, she left him.