"Not on the trail of old Jimmy Brunell still, on that business of the bonds found at the bank?" Walter's voice was suddenly shrill with simulated mirth. "Nothin' in that for you, Al; not a nickel, if that's what you're here for." "I'm not on Brunell's trail. I've found him," Morrow returned quietly; and in the tense pause which ensued he added dryly: "You led me to him." "So that's what it was, a plant!" Walter started from his chair, but Mame laid a trembling, sinewy hand upon his shoulder and forced him back. "What d'you mean, young man?" she demanded. "What do we know about old Brunell?" "You wrote him a letter--you knew where to find him." "I only wish we did!" she ejaculated. "We didn't write him! You must be crazy!" "'Big money coming to you from old score left unpaid. What is my share for collecting for you?'" quoted Morrow, adding: "I have a friend who is very much interested in ciphers, and he wanted me to ask you about the one you use, Pennold. His name is Blaine. Ever hear of him?" "Blaine!" Mame's voice shrank to a mere whisper, and her sallow face whitened. "Blaine! Henry Blaine? The guy they call the Master Mind?" Pennold's shaking voice rose to a breaking cry, but again his wife silenced him. "Suppose we did write such a letter--an' we ain't admittin' we did, for a minute--what's Blaine got on us?" demanded Mame, coolly. "It's no crime, as I ever heard, to write a letter any way you want to. Who are you, young man? You're no bank clerk!" "He's a 'tec, of course! Shut up your fool mouth, Mame. An' as for you, d--n you, get out of this house, an' get out quick, or I'll call the police myself! We've been leadin' straight, clean, respectable lives for years, Mame an' me, an' nobody's got nothin' on us! I ain't goin' to have no private 'tecs snoopin' in an' tryin' to put me through the third degree. Beat it, now!" He rose blusteringly and advanced toward Morrow with upraised fist, but the other, with the table between them, drew from his pocket a folded paper. "Not so fast, Pennold. I have a warrant here for your arrest!" "Don't you believe him, Wally!" shrilled Mame. "It's a fake! Don't you talk to him! Put him out." "The warrant was issued this morning, and I am empowered to arrest you. You can look at it for yourselves; you've both seen them before." He opened the paper and spread it out for them to read. "Walter Pennold, alias William Perry, alias Wally the Scribbler, number 09203 in the Rogues' Gallery. First term at Joliet, for forgery; second at Sing Sing for shoving the queer. This warrant only holds you as a suspicious character, Pennold, but we can dig up plenty of other things, if it's necessary; there's a forger named Griswold in the Tombs now awaiting trial, who will snitch about that Rochester check, for one thing."