Home! What a mockery the word was!

It was two o'clock in the morning now; he had been walking or sitting on a Drive bench for hours.

He was not conscious of fatigue, he only wanted to see his old home and then go away forever. He didn't plan his future. He was sure he could make a living easily enough, he felt he could build up a new life for himself over a new name. But oh, how he longed for the old life!

He stood in front of the house and stared at it.

He walked round and round the block it was on, pausing each time he pa.s.sed the front door, and walking on, if there chanced to be a pa.s.ser-by.

At last, he concluded to give up the painful pleasure of gazing at the closed windows and go back to Brooklyn.

His gaze traveled over the windows at the various rooms,--how well he knew what they all were,--and at last he found himself looking at the front door. How often he had let himself in with his latchkey.

Involuntarily his hand went to his pocket, where that latchkey even now was,--and hardly knowing what he was doing, he had the key in his hand and was mounting the steps of his old home.

Still as one in a daze, and with no intention of making his presence known, but with an uncontrollable desire to see for the last time those dear rooms, he silently fitted the key into place.

Noiselessly he turned it and pushed the door open.

The house was still, there were no lights on, save a low glimmer in the front hall.

He remembered that had always been left on.

But the street lights faintly illumined the living-room, and he went in.

With a wave of desperate homesickness he threw himself on the big davenport and buried his face into a pile of cushions.

He couldn't go away,--he _couldn't_.

But--he must!

And so, he forced himself to put aside his emotion, he bravely fought down his nostalgia, and promising himself one look into his father's study he vowed to go directly after.

He stepped into the little room where Douglas had been received. He couldn't resist the temptation to look about it, and, cautiously he snapped on the desk light.

There was the table with the drawer in it.

Carefully, Peter opened the drawer and saw for himself the tobacco pouch, the handkerchief, and the letter, signed "Peter."

He stared at it, amazed at the similarity to his own penmanship.

"I'd like to stay, if only to ferret out the mystery of this rascally fake!" he thought "But--oh, hang it! this rascally fake is the very breath of life to Dad and Mother. No, Peter Boots, it can't be done!

You're out of it all and out of it all you must stay. Clear out of here now, before you get in any deeper."

He fingered the old tobacco pouch.

"Heavens and earth!" he exclaimed to himself, as a sudden thought struck him. "That's so!"

Again he took up the letter, looking closely at the formation of the words, studying the tenor of the message, and then, with a sigh, laid all back in the drawer and gently closed it.

"That way madness lies," he told himself, and turned to leave the room and the house.

As he reached for the light switch, a small hand laid on his own detained him.

Startled, he looked up and saw a witch-like, eerie face smiling at him.

"Must you go?" whispered a mocking voice, and Peter Boots, for once in his life was absolutely stricken dumb.

Who or what was this sprite, this Brownie? What was she doing in his father's house? Were materialized spirits really inhabiting the place?

"Hush!" Zizi warned him, "don't speak above a whisper. Are you a burglar?"

Peter shook his head, unable to repress a smile, and his smile made the same impression on Zizi that it had always made on everybody,--that of absolute pleasure.

"Who are you?" she asked, scarce breathing the words.

"John Harrison," he returned, still smiling. "I'll go now, please."

"Without further explanation?"

"Yes, please."

"All right, I'll let you out. I know all about you. You sent a chap here to interview Mr. Crane,--and you're getting follow-up literature."

"Right! Good night."

And with a swiftness and silence born of the dire necessity of the moment, Peter went to the front door, out of it and down the street in record time.

He turned the first corner, and walked rapidly many blocks, before turning to see if he were followed.

He was not, and he went on his way to Brooklyn, his life tragedy still ahead of him, but relieved by the touch of comedy added by that mysterious and wonderfully attractive girl.

CHAPTER XVI

Zizi's Opportunity

The Blair case had come to a standstill. Although the police were still making investigations, they were fairly well satisfied that Thorpe was the guilty man and since he was jailed and awaiting trial, they rested on their laurels.

Pennington Wise was by no means sure of Thorpe's guilt, and Zizi was certain of his innocence, but though these two were working hard, as yet they had found no other definite suspect.

"But you must, Zizi," wailed Julie. "You know as well as I do that Mac never killed Gilbert. Now, find out who did!"

Wise confessed himself baffled, but asked for a little more time before admitting himself vanquished.

"You see, Ziz," he said to his astute young helper, "there are so many interesting side issues, that we get off the main track. I own up I'm quite as much absorbed in this Spiritism racket as I am in the murder case."