Gobb?"

"Gubb is the name I adhere to when not deteckating," said Mr. Gubb kindly. "And as to how about it, I wouldn't want to enter into a combination shutting me out from using the ability taught to me in Chapters One to Twelve inclusive, of the Correspondence course. For the twenty-five hundred which would fall to my share, I should expect to detect to some considerable extent."

"Quite right! _Quite_ right!" said Mr. Witzel promptly. "That meets my plans entirely. I make my headquarters here, I give you a free hand.

I am a--an inductive detective."

"Yes, sir. A Sherlock Holmes deteckative," said Philo Gubb.

"Ex-act-ly!" said Mr. Witzel. "I think things out. But you go out. You shadow and snoop and trail. I remain here. For you see," he added, "I'm so well known that if Master saw me he would disappear instantly.

Instantly!"

"I'm willing to transact it as a business bargain onto them terms,"

said Philo Gubb, and it was agreed.

Mr. Gribble immediately cut the cords that bound the two bundles, and released a canvas cot and a bundle of bedding. Then he said good-night and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Gubb waited until he heard Mr. Gribble's footsteps on the bra.s.s-clad stairs.

"That Gribble man ain't what I'd term by name of a--of a--" He hesitated. "He's not known as a strictly reliable citizen in any respect," he ended. "I wouldn't trust him any more than need be necessary."

"Thank you," said Mr. Witzel, who was already removing his garments.

"I don't mean to. And now, if you don't mind, I'll retire. Let's see if Mr. Master has a night-shirt in his suitcase. I think it helps the inductive mind to sleep in the night-shirt of the man it is hunting."

He opened the suitcase, using--oddly enough a key from his own bunch of keys. He found a night-shirt and put it on. To his surprise it fitted him exactly, which was odd, for Mr. Witzel was an unusually tall and thin man. Without wasting time, he climbed into the cot and closed his eyes. Mr. Gubb also retired.

Philo Gubb, from his cot, watched Mr. Witzel until he was sure he was thoroughly asleep. Then the Correspondence School detective slipped out of bed and knelt over the suitcase.

The suitcase contained linen all plainly marked. The name "C. Master"

was written in indelible ink on each piece. An extra suit of outer garments was marked with Mr. Master's name. There were silver-backed toilet articles, engraved with Mr. Master's name, and these Mr. Gubb examined closely, but what caught and held his interest most was a folded doc.u.ment, covered in light-blue paper and endorsed, "Last Will and Testament of Orlando J. Higgins. Copy."

The will began with the usual preamble, but the clause that caught Philo Gubb's bird-like eye, and held it, was the next.

"To my nephew, Custer Master," this clause said, "I give and bequeath $450,000; but, be it understood, my said nephew, Custer Master, shall benefit by this clause only in case he faithfully carries out the instructions contained in the sealed envelope attached hereto, the contents of said envelope to be read by my hereinafter named Executors, and the said Custer Master, and not by any other persons whatsoever; the said Executors are to be the sole judges of whether the said Custer Master has carried out the instructions therein contained."

This doc.u.ment was worn at the corners of the folds, and slightly soiled, as if Mr. Master had carried it in his pocket some time before dropping it in his suitcase.

With the same caution, and following closely Lesson Three and its directions for "Searching Occupied Apartments, Etc.," Mr. Gubb examined the articles of dress the Chicago detective had cast aside.

All were marked "C. Master" or "C. M." or with a monogram composed of the letters "C. M." interwoven.

As cautiously as he could, Philo Gubb crossed to his trunk and took from the left-hand compartment of the tray his trusty pistol. It was a large and deadly looking pistol, about a foot and a half long, with a small ramrod beneath the barrel. It was a muzzle-loader of the crop of 1854, and carried a bullet the size of a well-matured cherry. It was as heavy as a vitrified paving-brick. Its efficiency as a firearm was unknown, as Mr. Gubb had never discharged it, but it looked dangerous.

A man, facing Philo Gubb's trusty weapon, felt that if the gun went off he would be utterly and disastrously blown to flinders. Mr. Gubb pointed it at the sleeping Mr. Witzel, using both hands, and sighting along the barrel.

"Wake up!" he exclaimed sternly.

Mr. Witzel sat straight up on the cot. For an instant he was still dazed with sleep and did not seem to know where he was; then a look of joy spread over his face and he jumped from the cot and, with both hands extended, moved toward Detective Gubb.

"Superb!" he exclaimed. "A perfect specimen! Wonderfully preserved!"

"Go back!" said Philo Gubb sternly. "This article is a loaded pistol gun, prepared for momentary explosion at any time at all. Go back!"

"Remarkable!" cried Mr. Witzel joyously. "A superb specimen. Let me see it. Let me look at it."

He walked up to the gun and peered into its muzzle with one eye. He bent his head to read the engraving on the top of the barrel.

"A real Briggs & Bolton 53-1/2 caliber, muzzle-loading, 1854!" he exclaimed rapturously.

Mr. Gubb pushed him away with one hand.

"Go back there into range," he said sternly. "In shooting I aim to kill, but not to blow into particles of pieces."

"But, my dear sir!" exclaimed Mr. Witzel. "Do you know what you have there?"

"It's a pistol gun," said Philo Gubb. "If you don't stand back, I'll shoot you anyway."

"It's a Briggs & Bolton," said Mr. Witzel. "That's what it is. It is the only well-preserved specimen of Briggs & Bolton I ever saw."

Mr. Gubb shook off the hand that clasped his arm.

"I don't care what it is," said Mr. Gubb. "It's a pistol gun, and it's bung full of powder and bullet, and when I point it at you I mean that if you make a move I'm a-going to shoot."

"And I don't care what you mean," said Mr. Witzel. "It's a Briggs & Bolton, and I warn you that you have that gun so full of powder that if you pull that trigger you'll blow it to bits and ruin the only perfect specimen of that gun I ever saw!"

"And I tell _you_," said Philo Gubb sternly, "that I can't shoot you whilst you're rubbing your nose right into this gun. Go back there where I can shoot you."

"I won't!" said Mr. Witzel angrily.

Philo Gubb was slow to anger, but he was sorely pressed now, and his temper failed him.

"Look here," he said to Mr. Witzel. "If you don't go back where I can get a shot at you, I'll--I'll smack you on the face."

"If you shoot off that gun, and bust it," said Mr. Witzel, with equal anger, "I'll--I'll hit you on the head."

"Go back!" cried Philo Gubb menacingly. "One!"

"I'll give you fifty dollars for that gun, just as she is," said Mr.

Witzel.

"Two!" said Mr. Gubb.

"Sixty dollars!" said Mr. Witzel.

"Th--" said the paper-hanger detective, stepping backward to get room to sight along the long barrel. Unfortunately the trunk was just behind him and as he stepped back he tripped over it and fell backward, doubling up like a jack-knife. But he kept his presence of mind. The long barrel of the Briggs & Bolton protruded from between the soles of Philo Gubb's feet in Mr. Witzel's direction.

"Hands up!" he said.

Instantly Mr. Witzel raised his hands in the air.

"I'll give you seventy dollars," he said.