“Too dangerous, Doctor. He would kill us both before we knew it. No, I’m going to set my trap. If he comes he deserves to be trapped. If he doesn’t come, there is certainly no harm done.” “Where shall we hide the money?” asked Minna, nervously. “It doesn’t matter,” and Wise’s face set sternly. “He will never get as far as the money.” Hating his job, but fully alive to the justice and necessity of it, Wise set his trap that night. It was a real trap, and was set up in the kitchen in such a position that it faced the cellar door. It consisted of a short-barreled shotgun which was mounted on an improvised gun carriage, made of a strong packing box. This contrivance was fastened carefully to the kitchen wall about twelve feet in front of the cellar door, and when the door should be opened, the trap would be sprung and the shotgun discharged. A steel spring fastened to the trigger, and a strong cord running to a pulley in the ceiling, thence to another, and finally to a pulley in the floor, and on to the door knob completed the deadly mechanism. The tension of the spring was so carefully adjusted that an intruder might open the door a foot or more before the strain was carried to the trigger. This insured a sure aim and a clear shot. Wise tested his trap thoroughly, and finally, with a grim nod of his head, declared it was all right. He had sent the servants and the women-folks to bed, before beginning his work, and now he and Doctor Varian seated themselves in the library to await developments. “As I said,” Wise remarked, “‘Stephen’ may not come at all, he may send an accomplice. Yet this I expect the most surely,—he will come himself.” “Have you no idea of his identity, Mr Wise?” the doctor asked. “Yes; I have an idea,—and if he does not come tonight, I will tell you who I think he is. But we will wait and see.” They waited, now silent and now indulging in a few low toned bits of conversation, when at two o’clock in the morning the report of the gun brought them to their feet and they raced to the kitchen. The roaring detonation was still in their ears as they strode through the hall, and the smell of powder greeted them at the kitchen door. The cellar door was open, and on the floor near it lay a man breathing with difficulty. Doctor Varian dropped on his knees beside him, and his professional instinct was at once in full working order, even as his astonished voice exclaimed: “Lawrence North!” “As I expected,” Wise said, “and well he deserves his fate. Will he live, Doctor?” “Only a few moments,” was the preoccupied reply. “I can do nothing for him. He received the full charge in the abdomen.” “Tell your story, North,” Wise said, briefly; “don’t waste time in useless groaning.” North glared at the detective. “You fiend!” he gasped, gurgling in rage and agony. “You’re the fiend!” Varian said; “hush your vituperation and tell us where Betty is.”