"Mary, apparently, took no clothes at all," he thought, going back for the thousandth time over the old ground, "and Anne took a big trunk.... Well, that would fit--either way.... The large sum of money, left at the bank, subject to Anne's order as well as Mary's.... Yes--either way.... But the blood on the scarf--and on the floor.... I don't see--unless.... By George! I'll bet----" The driver heard his passenger slap his leg with a resounding thwack. He turned his head slightly. "Mosquito?" he threw over his shoulder. "Did ye git him?" "No. Yes--I'm not sure," said Peter, coming, confusedly, back to the present. "How far are we now from Fennimore Park? And do we pass through any town on the way?" he added, his mind reverting to immediate necessities. "We'll be there inside of twenty minutes," Josh answered the questions in order, "and we pass through Tollenville about a mile this side. 'S quite a big place. Why?" "Think I could get yesterday's New York papers anywhere there?" asked Peter. "Must keep up with the times, you know." "Oh, sure ye can," said Josh, easily. "Must have 'em at the Tollen House, I should think. I'd like t' stop there, anyway," and he drew the back of his hand, in a suggestive gesture, across his mouth. "All right," said Peter, with a comprehending grin. "If it's that kind of a place I may get the paper I want. So don't forget to stop." "I won't," said Josh, with evident sincerity, and Peter retired again into his thoughts. It seemed to him not many minutes later when they pulled up in front of a big, ugly red brick hotel with many wooden porches and gay, striped awnings. "Tollen House," remarked Josh, briefly, and disappeared around the corner of the building. Peter entered the lobby and anxiously enquired for the New York _Evening Earth_ of yesterday's date. One was found for him, much to his satisfaction. He gave the porter, who brought it to him, a generous tip, and dashed out to the poor old waiting "Lizzie," which looked more weary and woebegone than ever. Josh was nowhere in sight, and while Peter waited he ran a quick and practised eye over the paper. "No wonder Donald Morris was in the devil of a stew," he thought, as he absorbed the principal article on the front page, with its blatant headlines and its large half-tone picture of Mary Blake. "Wonder if he could think our office would be guilty of letting his name appear! Gee! that would be a rotten thing for a client. 'Absence first discovered by Donald Morris, son of Steven Morris, and heir to the Morris millions'," he read, disgustedly. "Dammit all! It's a beastly shame. I'll bet his house was besieged by reporters before the story had been on the street ten minutes. Nobody could have leaked but Jones, confound him! Bound to get some publicity for his leading lady, whether she liked it or not, and a lot for himself into the bargain. 'Frederick Jones, Miss Blake's manager, interviewed,' and in pretty good-sized type, too. Oh, damn!"