Alan said: "I wonder if we should report it. That girl probably will be found." He had been into one of the other rooms of the small apartment a few moments before. He drew me there now. "Ed, I want to show you something significant. Perhaps significant--I don't know, yet." Nanette followed after us. The bedroom faced south. We were high in a towering apartment building, just east of Fifth Avenue. Over the lower roofs of the city I could see far to the south. In the waning starlight down there a single searchlight beam was standing up into the sky. "Where is it?" I demanded. "The Battery? A ship in the harbor? Or Staten Island?" Somewhere down there, a white shaft of light standing motionless. It was fading in the growing daylight. "On Staten Island," said Alan. "It's a small searchlight on the roof of the Turber Hospital. It often stands like that. Haven't you ever noticed it?" I supposed I had. But never thought of it. Why should I? Alan added musingly: "It's queer--because I was wondering if it would chance to be there now, and there it is." "But, Alan, see here--you're making a mystery of this. Heaven knows it's mysterious enough of itself, without your adding more." * * * * * He smiled. I saw suddenly a grimness as the smile faded and he set his wide, thin lips. There were things which he was beginning to piece together. Things, involving us so soon into such a maelstrom of events! But now, Alan only said: "This Dr. Turber--Wolf Turber--have you ever heard of him?" "No," I said. "What has he to do with this? Whatever it is, you've guarded it very carefully from me, Alan." There must have been a touch of bitterness in my tone. He laughed. "Nonsense! I haven't known anything worth discussing." Nanette touched me: "It was something father told us just before he died. Just a theory of his--a suspicion." "So inexplicable," said Alan. "But he was so earnest, that morning he died. Telling us what might be things of scientific fact, but probably would never be disclosed--to us or any one. Yet now it may be--these things this morning seem to fit in. Ed, it's no secret--not from you." "Then," I said, "who is Dr. Turber? What is he to you?" "Nothing. He was, in 1925, a young medical student. Then, for a short while, he worked for father. He now owns the Turber Hospital--a private institution, a sort of sanatorium. He is, in his way, a genius. A specialist in nervous disorders. And father said he was--or would have been, had he stuck at it--an eminent physicist. But he did not. He left father--he stole, father thought, a large sum of father's money. I don't know the details. They're not important. Nothing was proved. He became--well, you might call him father's enemy. Certainly they disliked each other. I've met him casually several times. A scoundrelly sort of fellow, by his look. And that--of what I actually know--is all."