“I think there is,” Gregory said bitterly. “I recognized this man last night, and called a fellow who knew him in the old days, Saunders, our stage manager. And a newspaper man named Bassett wormed it out of Saunders. You know what that means.” David heard him clearly, but as though from a great distance. “You can see how it appears to Bassett. If he's found it, it's the big story of a lifetime. I thought he'd better be warned.” When David said nothing, but sat holding tight to the arms of his old chair, Gregory reached for his hat and got up. “The thing for him to do,” he said, “is to leave town for a while. This Bassett is a hound-hog on a scent. They all are. He is Bassett of the Times-Republican. And he took Jud--he took your nephew's automobile license number.” Still David sat silent, and Gregory moved to the door. “Get him away, to-night if you can.” “Thank you,” David said. His voice was thick. “I appreciate your coming.” He got up dizzily, as Gregory said, “Good-evening” and went out. The room seemed very dark and unsteady, and not familiar. So this was what had happened, after all the safe years! A man could work and build and pray, but if his house was built on the sand-- As the outer door closed David fell to the floor with a crash. XI Bassett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which it was Harrison Miller's custom to clip with his own bachelor hands, and waited. And as he waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside, behind the neatly curtained windows of the old brick house. He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to have forgotten something, and perhaps happen in on what might be drama of a rather high order; what, supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly sure to be drama. He discarded the idea, however, and began again his interested survey of the premises. Whoever conceived this sort of haven for Clark, if it were Clark, had shown considerable shrewdness. The town fairly smelt of respectability; the tree-shaded streets, the children in socks and small crisp-laundered garments, the houses set back, each in its square of shaved lawn, all peaceful, middle class and unexciting. The last town in the world for Judson Clark, the last profession, the last house, this shabby old brick before him. He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory had been right in his identification, he was, beyond those windows at that moment, very possibly warning Clark against himself. Gregory would know his type, that he never let go. He drew himself up a little. The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning toward the station. Bassett caught up with him and put a hand on his arm. “Well?” he said cheerfully. “It was, wasn't it?” Gregory stopped dead and stared at him. Then: “Old dog Tray!” he said sneeringly. “If your brain was as good as your nose, Bassett, you'd be a whale of a newspaper man.”