Vera eyed him distrustfully. “It is hardly a question of any importance; Millicent cashed a check for me in Washington the first of the week, Monday to be exact--” “Where did she cash the check?” “At her bank I suppose,” coldly. “My check was good--” “Oh, yes; it was nothing of that kind,” in embarrassment. “I’ll tell you all about it bye and bye.” And he hastened downstairs, leaving Vera staring after him in bewilderment. Wyndham found the Secret Service agent waiting for him at the foot of the staircase, his overcoat over his arm and hat in hand. “I didn’t meet with much luck, Mr. Anthony,” he said. “The trail of the counterfeiter doubles back to Washington.” “Ah! Miss Dorothy Deane had it given to her there?” “No; her sister, Miss Vera Deane, gave her the bill.” Wyndham came down the remaining steps to assist Anthony on with his overcoat. “Then Miss Vera Deane owned the bank note?” Anthony buttoned his coat with exactitude. “And where did Miss Vera Deane secure the note?” “My cousin, Miss Millicent Porter, cashed Miss Deane’s check on Monday and gave her the money.” Anthony regarded Wyndham in silence before putting another question. “Where did your cousin cash the check?” “At her bank,” mentioning a well-known establishment. “So you see, you will have to commence your investigations in Washington.” “It would seem so,” acknowledged Anthony, pausing on the portico as Wyndham stood in the front doorway. “I am greatly obliged for your courtesy. Good afternoon.” And hardly waiting to hear Wyndham’s hearty assurance of renewed assistance if he required aid, Anthony ran down the portico steps and walked toward the entrance of the grounds. On reaching the lodge gates he signaled a waiting taxi, but as he was about to enter and be driven back to Washington, an idea occurred to him, and he curtly told the chauffeur to wait, then turning to the lodgekeeper’s wife inquired the way to Thornedale. “The next property, sor; you enter beyond,” called the Irishwoman, pointing down the road to where a dilapidated gate hung on one hinge, and, nodding his thanks, Anthony hastened to Thornedale. In spite of its obvious need of repair the Secret Service agent was impressed by the appearance of the old hunting lodge, with its rambling wings, upper gallery, and gabled roof. The old place was picturesque in its winter setting, and Anthony wondered at its air of emptiness. The blinds in only a few of the rooms were drawn up, and the house appeared deserted. After repeated rings Anthony finally heard the chain being lowered, and the door opened several inches to permit Cato’s black face to appear in the crack. “Dr. Thorne am out,” he volunteered, before Anthony could state his errand, and made as if to shut the door, but the Secret Service agent’s foot blocked his effort.