"Yes, too bad, too bad," echoed Peter, absently, the while he made a mental note of the probable shape and position of the identifying mark by which he hoped at last to recognize Anne Blake. "Well," he added, rousing himself and looking at his watch, "I'm afraid I ought to be going, Mr. Lord. How long will it take to get to the station?" "Oh, not more than ten minutes," answered the old man, dragging out his own watch and comparing it with Peter's. "You've twenty minutes to spare. I want to write down your address so I can send you prints of the pictures I took of you just now. I'm pretty sure you'll like 'em." He went over and began fumbling in his desk for something to write upon. Peter followed and stood beside him. "Forty-seven East Thirty ---- Street." Peter supplied his private address, and as Lord seemed to be having some trouble in finding what he sought, Peter waited, glancing absently about. Suddenly his eye was arrested by a picture on the wall--a man and a girl on horseback. Could he be mistaken? He stepped nearer. No, he was right. He had never seen the girl before, but the man, the man on the left of the photograph, was Donald Morris. There could be no possible doubt. But what was he doing here? How had it happened---- Suppressing an ejaculation, Peter turned to the old photographer. Making his voice perfectly casual, he asked: "Who's the good-looking chap on horseback over here?" Lord looked up, following Peter's pointing finger. "Oh, that?" he said. "I don't know the man's name. The lady is a Miss Stone--lives over at Fennimore Park. She's quite a friend of mine. Rides through here two or three times a season, and is always having her picture taken with some man or other. You'll find several of 'em along there.... Now, where the dickens? Oh, here it is." He pulled, from a crowded pigeonhole, a small, dusty, black leather notebook, dragging a mass of letters and papers out with it. "Now, Mr. Clancy, give me the address again, if you don't mind----" Peter, his mind full of conjectures, leaned over the old man as he sat at his desk, and absently repeated his address: "Forty-seven East Thirty ---- Street, New York City." And as he did so, his eye lighted upon one of the letters which had fallen to the floor. Automatically, he stooped to pick it up, and as he lifted it, inadvertently he caught the words: "... money order, and if you will return my father's ring, which I value, and the----" Peter's heart almost stopped beating as he looked at the writing. His brain was in a whirl. He must leave immediately, and he had no time to weigh problems of right and wrong. He only knew one thing. He must have this letter of Anne Curwood's--of Anne Blake's. He must have time to consider. The old man's head was bent above his notebook. With a swift motion Peter, feeling like an unmitigated hound, slipped the letter into his pocket. "I'll make up some story--I'll return it later," he thought, confusedly. "In the meantime----"