"Drop back to-morrow, boy," he said at last. "I'll think over the thing to-night, and I may be able to get a bright idea. It's going to be tough sledding--too tough, I'm afraid. If only we didn't have to buck up against that trial, and the ideas people seem to have gotten of it, we'd be all right. But--" There it was again, that one word, that immutable obstacle which seemed to arise always. Houston reached for his hat. "I'm going to keep on trying, anyway, Mr. Mason. I'll be back to-morrow. I'm going to get that money if I have to make a canvass of Boston, if I have to go out and sell shares at a dollar apiece and if I go broke paying dividends. I've made my promise to go through--and I'm going!" "Good. I'll be looking for you." But half an hour later, following a wandering, aimless journey through the crooked streets, Barry Houston suddenly straightened with an inspiration. He whirled, he dived for a cigar store and for a telephone. "Hello!" he called, after the long wait for connections. "Mr. Mason? Don't look for me tomorrow--I believe I'll not be there." "But you haven't given it up?" "Given up?" Houston laughed with sudden enthusiasm. "No--I've just started. Put the date off a day or two until I can try something that's buzzing around in my head. It's a wild idea--but it may work. If it doesn't, I'll see you Thursday." Then he turned from the telephone and toward the railroad station. "One, to New York," he ordered hurriedly through the ticket window. "I've got time to make that seven-forty, if you rush it." And the next morning, Barry Houston was in New York, swirling along Seventh Avenue toward Bellstrand Hospital. There he sought the executive offices and told his story. "Five minutes later he was looking at the books of the institution, searching, searching,--at last to stifle a cry of excitement and bend closer to a closely written page. "August second," he read. "Kilbane Worthington, district attorney, Boston, Mass. Acc by Drs. Horton, Mayer and Brensteam. Investigations into effect of blows on skull. Eight cadavers." With fingers that were almost frenzied, Houston copied the notation, closed the book, and hurried again for a taxicab. It yet was only nine o'clock. It the traffic were not too thick, if the driver were skilful-- He raced through the gate at Grand Central just as it was closing. He made the train in unison with the last drawling cry of the conductor. Then for hours, in the Pullman chair car, he fidgeted, counting the telegraph posts, checking off the stations as they flipped past the windows, through a day of eagerness, of excited, racking anticipation. It was night when he reached Boston, but Houston did not hesitate. A glance at a telephone book, another rocking ride in a taxicab, and Barry stood on the veranda of a large house, awaiting the answer to his ring at the bell. Finally it came. "Mr. Worthington," he demanded. The butler arched his eyebrows.