The minutes passed with the trio in the same position. The snow sifted across the cold panes. The wind whined. Suddenly between gusts, Loris asked point-blankly: "Do you suspect that man, Morphy?" "Yes; I do!" said Drew with a snap. "I believe that every single lead we have points to him. I believe he planned to destroy your father ever since the day of conviction. I believe----" "But he is in prison." "Ah!" said the detective, with bright eyes. "So is his master, Lucifer, in the lower regions. He's there, but he has a long arm. Morphy's tool in this affair is probably the telephone repair-man. You saw him. Mr. Nichols saw him. I saw him. We all agree that he does not look the part of a scoundrel and a scoundrel's tool. But," Drew paused and spread out his hands; "but," he continued, "that's the reason he was chosen for Morphy's murderous work. You can't send a thug into a drawing room--or a library. You can't cut a sharp slice with a dull tool. This trouble-hunter is all that the name implies--a hunter of trouble. I don't doubt that we have the case rounded up, save for bringing him in. Morphy, we can get at any time. He's in prison and he's getting very close to the little green door that leads to the electric-chair. One slip to-night, and we have him!" "Miss Stockbridge must go south after the funeral," said Nichols. "She can't be jeopardized! She is nervous and has suffered acutely. I for one am sorry we let her stay here. It is the place she should not be. They know where to look for her!" "They're beat to-night," assured Drew, rising and stretching his arms. "My! my!" he added, "this is slow, sleepy work. I'd ask for tea, but I think it's best we stay locked in here. Don't you, Miss Stockbridge?" "Marie can get some. There's a service-waiter running up to her room. Suppose I order tea, or coffee, and cakes. It might cheer us up?" Drew held out a warding arm as Loris rose and started toward the writing room. "I'll tend to it," he said. "You stay right here close up to Mr. Nichols. We're taking no chances at all." The detective parted the portières and knocked upon the maid's door as he turned the key with his left hand. He waited as she gave the order through a silver-plated speaking tube. He heard the service-waiter rising. He leaned forward and took the tray with a sharp glance about the maid's room. It was as clean and as neat as a work basket. A French novel, with a vivid portrait of a poilu carrying a very sharp bayonet on its cover, lay in the center of a white counterpane on the bed. "Good-night!" he said as he closed and carefully locked the door. He reached downward and caught up the tray. He started across the writing-room. He paused in its center as he heard: "Burrrr! Burrrr! Burrrrr!"