“Lena?” Carter paused, and looked straight into the woman’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked. “I want you to give me some information.” “Mr. Carter, I have always declared that if I could ever do you a favor for what you did for me I would do it.” “Now is your chance.” “What do you want to know?” “Are you acquainted with a man named Dick Darwin?” “Yes--why----” “You have called on him a number of times?” “Yes.” “Where?” “He has a room in the Studio Building, at the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Broadway.” “How long have you known him?” “Only a few weeks.” “How did you become acquainted with him?” “I----” Lena hesitated. She looked at the detective, and her face turned pale. Carter kept his eyes riveted upon her. “Lena,” he said, “you must not try to conceal anything from me.” “Mr. Carter, did Darwin employ you?” Lena asked. “No. Why?” “I just wanted to know.” “What if he had employed me?” “I am unable to say.” Lena moved about uneasily in her chair. Carter kept still. He was giving the woman plenty of time to think. There was no need to hurry, for he was confident that he would get out of her all the information he desired. “Mr. Carter, what do you know about Dick Darwin?” Lena finally blurted out. “Very little,” the detective replied. “I want to learn what you know about him.” “You are as sphinxlike as ever.” “I have to be.” Another silence followed. Lena arose from her chair and walked back and forth across the room several times. She resumed her seat again. “I will tell you everything!” she exclaimed. “That is right,” the detective said, in an encouraging tone. Lena leaned back in her chair, and for some moments she sat with head bowed. At length she looked up at the detective, and said: “I had a brother, whose name was Edward Peters. “He was employed by a Mrs. Porter, who lived on Fifth Avenue. “About ten years ago he was stabbed in the back, and he died in Bellevue Hospital. “I always believed that some one murdered him, although I could never secure any evidence to prove it. “He had for a chum a man named George Blanchard. “Blanchard also died in the hospital. “Previous to his death he made some kind of a confession to my brother in regard to a will case. “I tried to get out of my brother what the confession was about, but he would not tell me. “Three months ago I was looking through a trunk which contained some things belonging to my brother, and I found an old memorandum book. “I opened it, and I was surprised to find written in it a short account of Blanchard’s confession. “I was interested. “At the end of the confession I found a note.” “What was it?” “I will get the book and read it to you.” “Do so.” Lena got up, walked over to a bureau, opened a drawer, took out a small, leather-bound book, returned to her seat, opened the book and commenced to read: