It now became known throughout the Wilkinson household on-the-Drive--and, likewise, to the inner sanctum of District Attorney Murgatroyd's office--that Peter V. Wilkinson contemplated a trip to Maine. There was reason for it: the city sweltered in mid-August heat. Peter V. had no house or shooting-box in Maine--his game being men, not beasts,--and accordingly a suite of rooms at a hotel was engaged by wire. Railroad tickets were purchased; trunks were packed; appointments made with his nearest and dearest friends to meet him there for a three-weeks' jaunt. Every essential detail was attended to; nothing was overlooked. But there was one strange thing about it all: Leslie, who usually accompanied him, was to be left behind; Wilkinson was going alone with Hawkins. It was his frolic; he did not want to be hampered by anyone. But Hawkins and the District Attorney knew that Wilkinson would not be lonely: a chambermaid to have charge of his suite of rooms at the hotel in Maine was despatched from the Borough of Manhattan; two bell-boys were installed; from the instant that Wilkinson should reach the East Side pier in New York he would be attended by a drove of sleuths. But did Wilkinson have any suspicion of all this? If he did, not by word or look did he betray as much. On the day of his departure, Peter V., with a matter-of-fact air, handed to Hawkins a small, oblong, heavy, cold, metallic package, saying: "Hawkins, just stick that in my suit-case." Alone, later, the valet opened and examined the package, and found, as he suspected, that it contained another revolver, hammerless, sinister, ominous. "Suicide in Maine!" He emitted a whistle, and added: "Not if I know it, Mr. Wilkinson." He discussed at length with Murgatroyd the ease with which Wilkinson might throw himself overboard, or might shoot or poison himself in his stateroom. But "Hawkins, it's up to you to see that he doesn't ..." was all the satisfaction that he received from the District Attorney. Their preparations completed, Hawkins now stepped into the presence of his master, and announced: "Colonel Morehead, sir, to see you." Wilkinson descended to his Den, entered and locked the door behind him. After fifteen minutes of desultory conversation, he held out his hand, and said, his voice trembling: "Good-bye, old boy! We shall never meet in life again--good-bye!" Colonel Morehead stared curiously at his client. He asked no questions, but merely took Peter's hand within his own and pressed it hard. "Good-bye, Peter," was all he said. * * * * * Wilkinson, watch in hand, stood at the open door. "Look sharp, now, with those grips," he directed. And turning to Watson, his new footman: "Watson, time is the essence of this thing. Go up and help Hawkins, and be quick about it, please."