Brunell was out when he called, but Emily led him into the little sitting-room, and for a time they talked in a desultory fashion. Morrow, who had brought so many malefactors to justice by the winning snare of his personality, felt for once at a loss as to how to commence his questioning. But the girl herself, guilelessly, gave him a lead by beginning, quite of her own accord, to talk of her early life. "It seems so strange," she remarked, confidingly, "to have been so completely alone all of my life--except for Daddy, of course." "You have no brothers or sisters, Miss Brunell?" asked the detective. "None--and I never knew my mother. She died when I was born." Morrow sighed, and involuntarily his hand reached forward in an expression of complete sympathy. "Daddy has been mother and father to me," the girl went on impulsively. "We have always lived in this neighborhood, ever since I can remember, and of course we know everyone around here. But with my downtown position and Father's work in the shop, we've had no time to make real friends and we haven't even cared to--before." "Before when?" he asked with a kindly intonation not at all in keeping with the purpose which had actuated him in seeking her friendship. "Before you brought my kitten back to me." She paused, suddenly confused and shy, then added hurriedly, "We have so few guests, you know. Daddy, somehow, doesn't care for people--as a rule, that is. I'm awfully glad that he has made an exception with you." "But surely you have other friends--for instance, that young fellow I've noticed now and again when he called upon you." Morrow's thoughts had suddenly turned to that unknown visitor toward whom he had taken such an unaccountable dislike. "Young fellow--what young fellow?" Emily Brunell's voice had changed, slightly, and a reserved little note intruded itself which reminded Morrow all at once of her father. "I don't know who he is--I'm such a newcomer in the neighborhood, you know; but I happened to see him from my window across the way--a short, dapper-looking young chap with a small, dark mustache." "Oh! _that_ man." Her lip curled disdainfully. "That's Charley Pennold. He's no friend of mine. He just comes to see Father now and again on business. I don't bother to talk to him. I don't think Daddy likes him very much, either." She caught her breath in sharply as she spoke, and looked away from Morrow in sudden reserve. He felt a quick start of suspicion, and searched her averted face with a keen, penetrating glance. If this Charley Pennold, whoever he might be, wished to see James Brunell on legitimate business, why did he not go to his shop openly and above-board in the day-time? Could he be an emissary from some one whom the old forger had reason to evade? If he were, did Emily know for what purpose he came, and was she annoyed at her own error in involuntarily disclosing his name? "He is a map-maker, too?" leaped from Morrow's lips.