"We can't prove a single thing on him!" declared Drew. "He used the 'phone--once or twice. Perhaps he has permission from the superintendent of state prisons to do so. He has business interests which require his telephoning, we'll say."

"Then we're just going to wait right here?" asked Loris, stamping her slipper. "Wait right here and let them do their worst?"

"The city detectives would do the same thing I'm doing," said Drew on the defensive. "They'd trap their men. Do you want to see the man or men who slayed your father, escape? He will, or they will, unless we give them enough rope to hang themselves."

"Or wire!" said Nichols cheerfully. "No, Loris, Mr. Drew is right. He's done everything. All we have got to do, is wait. Let's sit down for a little while. Delaney said he might have word soon."

Drew waited until Loris had pressed herself into a small compa.s.s at the back of the divan, with Harry Nichols leaning over her in a shielding position which was thoughtful and at the same time affectionate. He strode toward the writing room and parted the heavy, silk portieres. He studied every detail. He dropped the portieres and crossed the sitting room to the doorway leading into Loris' chamber. This, too, he searched with his eyes. Backing to the center of the room he dropped his chin in thought. A sound outside the mansion caused him to turn and hurry to a window. He brushed the curtain aside and tried to peer out. He rubbed the frosted gla.s.s vigorously. His nose pressed to a white b.u.t.ton as he searched the side street. A taxi had come to a grinding halt directly below the window. Its wheels spun upon the slippery surface. A man leaned out of an open doorway and urged the driver on with a brandished fist of ham-like proportions. The driver backed into the snow, dropped into first speed and stepped on his throttle. The taxi leaped forward, gripped the surface, and plowed toward Fifth Avenue in a welter of flying ice and flakes.

Drew sprang back and faced Loris and Nichols who had risen and were standing together in the glow from the cl.u.s.ter over their heads.

"What happened?" they asked in unison. "What was outside?"

"Delaney!" snapped Drew, dragging out his watch and glancing at it.

"Delaney's got word where to find his man. He's on the trail at last!

It's twelve-two. We ought to have that fellow in a half hour."

"The trouble-man?" asked Loris, with rising hopes. "Do you think it is the trouble-man, Mr. Drew?"

"Nine chances in ten, it is! I'm venturing a guess it is. If we get him--if Delaney gets him--he'll know it. Delaney used to work under the old-time police chiefs. They showed scant consideration."

"But, he won't hurt him!" said Loris, with a tremulous exclamation.

"That murderer! Why, Miss Stockbridge, isn't he plotting to slay you?

Didn't he kill your father? I wish I were in Delaney's place."

"Me too!" declared Nichols, drawing closer to the detective. "Say, Inspector, I want to congratulate you. I do."

"Wait, Harry. Just wait! You two sit down and be quiet. This affair is a personal one with me. I don't doubt that Morphy or perhaps some one else in state prison 'phoned to the same party who phoned Miss Loris.

That was all we needed. Delaney jumped into a taxi and hurried downtown as fast as the storm permitted. Perhaps the call came from the same booth. I don't think so, though."

"The one at Forty-second Street and Broadway?"

"I don't think so, Nichols. This fellow seems to pick a new one every time. He's very crafty. That alone shows a criminal mind."

Drew paced the floor with soft gliding. He turned at the portieres and crossed to the tapestries. He returned and stood before Loris and Nichols.

"Captain," he said, "we can now begin to reconstruct this case. We can get some of the dead-wood from our minds. It is apparent to me that one of Mr. Stockbridge's sworn enemies--Morphy, for instance--confined in state's prison, set about to slay both members of the family. He secured a confederate whom he knew. This confederate has never been arrested in the state. We have that from the finger prints in the booth at Grand Central. We will presume that this confederate is the trouble-man. He is probably an expert electrician. He either tapped in on the wires the night Mr. Stockbridge was murdered or got behind the switchboard and called up the library 'phone."

"The switchboard?" asked Loris. "You mean the big place where the girls are?"

"Not exactly there. The wires run down and are tagged. It would be possible for him to cut in somewhere between the switchboard and the conduits. Now I don't know how it was done. There's several ways. But wherever he tapped in, he must have used a magneto to ring Mr.

Stockbridge up, and afterwards a battery-set to do the talking. All this Westlake says it would be necessary to do, so that the operator would not notice a permanent signal on the board."

"What was his object?" asked Nichols.

"To cover himself. He first disconnected the wires and waited till I sent for a trouble-man. Frosby, or Frisby, was sent. The trouble-man took his place. He came here and looked the place over. He lied to Mr.

Stockbridge and I when he told us about that tall German in the alley.

If there was such a man there before the snow froze we would have his footprints."

"You haven't them?" asked Loris.

"No. Delaney has a set made by this trouble-hunter when he was at the junction-box. This must have been the time he either cut the connections so that I would send for him, or it was the time when he called up and threatened Mr. Stockbridge with death within twelve hours. You remember that the telephone company have no record of the call. Now the next call----"

"Was there another?" the girl asked.

"Yes--to your father at or about the moment he died. That was from the Grand Central Station at Forty-second Street. There's a good record of that. Your father knocked the telephone down when he dropped dead. The operator noticed that the connection was open and put on the howler.

The record is clear on that."

"But what is all this twisting and turning for?"

"To throw us off, Miss Stockbridge. We're dealing with a crafty, cunning mind. This mind took the extreme precaution of connecting two booths at Grand Central so that a man in Sing Sing could talk to your father without leaving a record at the Westchester Exchange or at Gramercy Hill Exchange. How this was done I don't know. It could be done with auxiliary batteries and looping so that the Gramercy Hill operator thought the Westchester call was to a slot booth, while another call from the next booth to this house was really the same connection shunted or looped through. Westlake, vice-president of the telephone company, says that there would be several ways of doing this.

He added it would take an expert in telephony."

"I'm all twisted up, Mr. Drew. I suppose you understand it. But what about that call to-night--the one that frightened me?"

"The man was sure of himself!" said Drew without thinking. "He has his plans made. He figures they will not fail!"

"Oh, you mean----"

"I mean, Miss Stockbridge, that he expects to slay you in the same manner your father was slain. We have this advantage. You are not alone in this room or these rooms. Your father was alone. The murderer will have Mr. Nichols and myself to deal with this time! Be calm."

"But--I don't see how he could--get in here?"

"Nor do I. The point is that he got into the library and out again without trace. He had an hour to do his work in. Here, he is running every risk."

"But he has already been here, Mr. Drew."

The detective glanced keenly at Nichols, who had shot the statement straight through clean white teeth.

"I know it," Drew said with a trace of anxiety in his voice. "That is disquieting. But we have searched these rooms and found absolutely no trace of tampering with locks or ventilators or window-catches."

"Could he climb up here? He might have climbing irons," added Nichols glancing toward the windows.

"A good porch-climber could do it," Drew mused, with his eyes sweeping the curtains. "A very good one could. There are only three or four good ones out of prisons. They never go in for murder."

"Wouldn't money buy them?" asked Loris. "Mr. Morphy may have retained one--with some of the gold he stole from poor father."

"Retained," repeated Drew, turning with sudden intentness. "Retained, is hardly the word, Miss Loris. Hired, is more to the point. Hired a.s.sa.s.sins are not uncommon. We have the Becker case and the Hope murder. We have----"

Drew allowed his voice to trail to a whisper. "We have," he declared, "our man! There's the front door bell! It's Delaney!"

"You have splendid ears, Mr. Drew."

"I have to have, Miss Stockbridge. Now," he added sharply, "you and Mr.

Nichols go into the library--the writing room. I think the case is closing. There may be a little excitement if Delaney's got that fellow.

I, for one, am not going to stand much from him. Please go into the other room. That's right. Stand there, Harry, in case we need a soldier!"

Drew advanced step by step toward the tapestries. He lifted his gun from his hip pocket, examined it with narrowed eyes, then replaced it loosely. He brushed the curtains aside and had the key out, as heavy steps shook the upper stairway and a knock sounded on the panels of the door.