“I understand. What move will you make next?” “I cannot determine just now.” Carter was elated over the discovery. After leaving the cashier’s office he went direct to the house on Fourth Street. Here he found that Brockey was still a prisoner. His young assistant was on guard. “Brockey,” said the detective, as he stood in front of the prisoner, “have you spent all the money that Darwin gave you?” “What’s that to you?” Brockey snarled, being in an ugly mood. And no wonder! Who could blame him? Brockey was by no means a stoic or a philosopher. His was a nature which would brood on troubles. There was bitter hatred and malice in every flash of his eye. No love there, no appreciation of the detective’s ability! Carter gazed down into that dark countenance. He read the man’s thoughts. “If you have any of that money left,” Carter replied, in a serious tone, “some of it may be bills which were stolen from the murdered man. “I have the numbers of those bills in my possession.” Instantly the expression on Brockey’s face changed. A look of terror came over it. It had not occurred to him before that the money might have belonged to the man who was killed at the Red Dragon Inn. “Do you understand?” Carter asked at length, when Brockey made no reply. “I understand,” the rascal said, with a gasp. “If you should have one of those bills on you, and if it should be identified as belonging to Lawrence, then, if I were so inclined, I could fix the murder on you.” “You would not do that?” “No, I would not.” “I have some of the money.” “Is it in your pocket?” “Yes.” Carter put his hand into Brockey’s trousers pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills. He ran the money over and found one of the series. “This is one,” he remarked, holding the bill up for Brockey to inspect. “My God!” the rascal ejaculated. “You will have to tell now in court how this came into your possession.” “I’ll tell quick enough.” “I guess you will.” “Let me look at the number.” “See?” “I do.” The rest of the money the detective gave to Brockey. The bill he marked and put away in his pocketbook with the others. The evidence against Rich was stronger. But still more evidence was needed before a case could be proven. Carter left the house. Slowly he walked through to Broadway, and when he reached that thoroughfare he halted on the corner and reviewed the events of the past few days. He was forced to acknowledge in spite of himself that the evidence against Simeon Rich was strong. But still he was not satisfied. Dora Ferris’ testimony and that of Lena Peters would be damaging. The testimony of the cashier, the cabman, and Brockey would be sensational. And the note which he had found in Darwin’s room in Dora’s flat would tighten the coil. But it was not enough. “Every link in the chain of evidence must be complete,” Carter muttered. What move ought he to make?