Under Dr. O’Hanlenne’s directions, a light but nutritious meal was promptly served, which the two partook of with relish. The repast over, the Colonel, followed by his guests, led the way across the hall to the elevator. He touched an electric button and they quickly ascended two stories. The Colonel then conducted them down the hall and into a magnificent library. Books lined the four walls from floor to ceiling. “We’ll find what we want here,” said the Colonel, crossing to one corner of the library. “The files for that period are bound in four volumes to the year. Let me see--we want June, nineteen hundred. That will be the second volume of that year. Ah, here it is.” The Colonel picked out a big volume and laid it on one of the polished library tables. “June the tenth is the date, I believe? By the way,” he added, turning to Kearns, “may I ask the names?” “My name is Thomas Kearns and I am, or rather was----” “What!” exclaimed the Colonel, with a start, “not Thomas Kearns, the famous Director of Police, the great Vidocq of that period, whose name has figured so often in the sensational romances of the writer, Branderhurst?” “Well,” replied Kearns modestly, “I believe I was pretty well known in connection with police matters in my day, but you do me altogether too much honor. As for Branderhurst: I’m sorry, but I never heard of him!” “True,” said the Colonel, “he wrote after your day. What the French authors did for Vidocq, Branderhurst has done for you. You are known to our girls and boys, and readers of sensational literature generally, as a Fouché and a Vidocq rolled into one. In a word, as the great American Director of Secret Police.” “They didn’t quite style it that way in my day,” answered Kearns, “but I suppose it’s all right. A rose under any other name would smell just as sweet! As for Branderhurst, I’m sure I’m obliged to him for acting as a gratuitous post-mortem press agent. What can I do to repay him, I wonder!” “Not much, I fear,” replied the Colonel, “inasmuch as poor Branderhurst, who was really a very talented poet and novelist, died in delirium tremens nearly a quarter of a century ago.” “Ah, I see,” said Kearns apologetically; “it used to be much the same thing with writers in the old days.” “And now,” inquired the Colonel, turning to the Professor, “may I ask your name?” “Walter Stuart Dean,” answered the Professor. “And,” he added with a smile, “I fear I cannot lay any claim to distinction such as possessed by my friend here, for in my period I was nothing but a poor pedagogue and----” But the Professor stopped abruptly, for both the Colonel and the Doctor had turned toward him with faces flushed and eager. “Walter Stuart Dean!” repeated the Doctor. “Walter Stuart Dean!” echoed the Colonel. “Are you the famous writer on political economy; the distinguished inventor and scientist?”