As we ate breakfast I filled in gaps I had left in my hurried narrative, with relief that I can not describe filling my heart as I leaned again upon the sympathy of an old and trusted friend. As Bates came and went I marked Larry’s scrutiny of the man. I dismissed him as soon as possible that we might talk freely. “Take it up and down and all around, what do you think of all this?” I asked. Larry was silent for a moment; he was not given to careless speech in personal matters. “There’s more to it than frightening you off or getting your grandfather’s money. It’s my guess that there’s something in this house that somebody—Pickering supposedly—is very anxious to find.” “Yes; I begin to think so. He could come in here legally if it were merely a matter of searching for lost assets.” “Yes; and whatever it is it must be well hidden. As I remember, your grandfather died in June. You got a letter calling you home in October.” “It was sent out blindly, with not one chance in a hundred that it would ever reach me.” “To be sure. You were a wanderer on the face of the earth, and there was nobody in America to look after your interests. You may be sure that the place was thoroughly ransacked while you were sailing home. I’ll wager you the best dinner you ever ate that there’s more at stake than your grandfather’s money. The situation is inspiring. I grow interested. I’m almost persuaded to linger.” CHAPTER XX A TRIPLE ALLIANCE Larry refused to share my quarters and chose a room for himself, which Bates fitted up out of the house stores. I did not know what Bates might surmise about Larry, but he accepted my friend in good part, as a guest who would remain indefinitely. He seemed to interest Larry, whose eyes followed the man inquiringly. When we went into Bates’ room on our tour of the house, Larry scanned the books on a little shelf with something more than a casual eye. There were exactly four volumes,—Shakespeare’s Comedies, The Faerie Queen, Sterne’s Sentimental Journey and Yeats’ Land of Heart’s Desire. “A queer customer, Larry. Nobody but my grandfather could ever have discovered him—he found him up in Vermont.” “I suppose his being a bloomin’ Yankee naturally accounts for this,” remarked Larry, taking from under the pillow of the narrow iron bed a copy of the Dublin Freeman’s Journal. “It is a little odd,” I said. “But if you found a Yiddish newspaper or an Egyptian papyrus under his pillow I should not be surprised.” “Nor I,” said Larry. “I’ll wager that not another shelf in this part of the world contains exactly that collection of books, and nothing else. You will notice that there was once a book-plate in each of these volumes and that it’s been scratched out with care.” On a small table were pen and ink and a curious much-worn portfolio. “He always gets the mail first, doesn’t he?” asked Larry. “Yes, I believe he does.” “I thought so; and I’ll swear he never got a letter from Vermont in his life.”