The noise of traffic increased as they neared Sixth Avenue, and Peter Clancy, whose susceptibilities and intuitions were preternaturally keen, contrasted the busy roar and rattle and movement of many people with the silence and aloofness of the still place they had just left. Somehow, he had the certain intuition that those quiet walls had sheltered a tragic situation, unexplained and, perhaps, unexplainable. The mere fact that he had so little to go upon piqued his vivid curiosity and brought up every reserve of his fighting Irish instincts. He swore to himself that he would solve this enigma, that he would find out every detail of this strange situation, if it took "till Kingdom Come." His feeling was greatly enhanced by the personality of the man who was hurrying by his side. No one who had ever been admitted, in any degree, to Donald Morris's confidence had failed to feel his remarkable charm. Peter had seen him in an hour of great stress, when every mere conventionality had been swept away, and a very real personal desire to be of service was the result of this glimpse of the actual man. These thoughts passed rapidly through the mind of the young detective as they hurried along the streets. They had not far to go, as the garage in question was east of Sixth Avenue, in one of the cross streets, just above Washington Square. Morris led the way unhesitatingly. "There it is," he said as they turned the corner. "Hammond's Garage. I knew it began with an H. Miss Blake has used this garage exclusively for some time. They'll be sure to know----" "Let's go a bit easy," said Clancy, with his hand on Donald's arm. "We don't want to get up more excitement than is absolutely necessary. Suppose you leave it to me." Morris nodded a ready acquiescence, and promptly abandoning his place as leader, followed Peter into the little office, beside the big door of the garage. "Good morning," said Peter, pleasantly, to a heavily built man, who turned his swivel chair away from his desk at their approach and regarded them with the calm of a man whose business came to him without strenuous effort. "Is this Mr. Hammond?" Peter continued. "It is," said the man, shifting a large, unlighted cigar to the opposite corner of his mouth. "My name's Clancy," Peter went on. "I just dropped in on an errand for Miss Blake--Ninety-nine Waverly Place, you know." He wished to make sure that this was the right garage and waited for the affirmative nod which immediately followed. "Miss Blake wants to know," he continued, smoothly, "why you didn't send the taxi for her yesterday at five." Mr. Hammond's composure was slightly shaken. He frowned and ponderously swung about to the desk. He opened a large book which lay upon it and ran his finger down the entries of a page dated May twenty-eighth. Frowning still more, he shook his head and called loudly-- "Joe!" Immediately an overalled mechanic, with a long smear of black grease on his nose, appeared at the door. "Yep."