"Did you notice anything peculiar about Mason?"

"His face, and voice, and actions seemed strangely familiar to me."

"That's what I mean, exactly."

"Haven't we met him before?"

"Well," said Harry, "if he were dressed like an undertaker, wore false side-whiskers and called himself Solomon Gloom, don't you think he would resemble the villain who shot me in Thirty-sixth street?"

"Thunder!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Old King Brady, slapping his knee with his hand.

The keen boy's discernment startled him.

What Harry said was the truth.

Mason certainly bore a startling resemblance to the man who had shipped the box of human remains to Georgia.

Harry laughed, and asked:

"You notice the resemblance then, do you?"

"I do, indeed. It's startling."

"Do you think he's the same man?"

"The Lord knows. It's hard to say. But I suspect he is. If he and Mr.

Gloom were the same person, what possible object could he have had in putting that man out of the way?"

"We may find out later on."

The cab brought them to the palatial residence the missing broker had occupied, and a ring at the bell brought a negro flunky to the door.

He stared at the detectives, and they stared at him.

Then he uttered a startled cry, and retreating into the hall, he made a movement as if he were going to close the door in their faces.

Harry was too quick for him.

The boy sprang in and caught him by the throat.

Despite the fact that the c.o.o.n now wore a dress suit, the detectives recognized him as the driver of the undertaker's wagon, whom "Mr.

Gloom" had addressed as "Sim."

A gurgling cry escaped the black man.

"Let me go!" he gasped.

"I've got you now, you villain!" cried Harry, grimly.

"Fo' de Lawd sakes, what yo' doin'?" groaned the darky.

"You are the undertaker's helper. We know you."

"No, I ain't, boss. No, I ain't!" protested the man in alarmed tones.

"Don't you lie to me! We know you, I tell you, and by Jove we are going to make you tell who that man was you murdered!"

The negro was terribly frightened.

In fact, he was so scared he could hardly speak.

Seeing this, Harry went on in excited tones:

"It was Ronald Mason with you, disguised. We know that. You and he were down at Swamp Angel together, on a spree. We know that, too. And now, you black scoundrel, we want to know who that man was you murdered, blast you! We saw the box and body stolen at the swamp near Mr.

Dalton's winter residence, and we know now that you and Mason were at the bottom of that mysterious piece of rascality. What does it all mean, confound you?"

Harry's excited voice brought a beautiful, stylishly-clad young girl down the stairs, and there was a look of surprise in her big, dark eyes.

"Sim Johnson," she cried, "what does this mean?"

"Oh, sabe me, Miss Lizzie, sabe me!" implored the frightened c.o.o.n.

"Gentlemen----" she began.

"Pardon me, Miss Dalton," interrupted Old King Brady. "We are officers of the law. This man is mixed up in a suspicious case. We want him to confess his villainy. Don't interfere, please."

"But I protest!" cried the young lady in angry tones.

"It is useless. We must do our duty."

"Why, what has Sim done? Now I remember you. You were here a week ago."

"Been away several days with Mason, hasn't he?" asked Harry, with a nod.

"Yes. Out West they told me----"

"And lied. They were at your father's place in Georgia."

"My gracious! I hope they have done nothing wrong."

"Well, they have. We are bound to find out about it, too."

"Can you tell me what this all means?"

"Of course we can. But we are going to arrest this man."

"Come into the parlor so the neighbors won't hear you."