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Updated: September 15, 2025
Mark Paddington, the detective, had been in frequent communication with each of their employers. When the young women had concluded their reports and gone, Blaine telephoned at once to Guy Morrow, his right-hand operative, and instructed him to watch for Paddington's appearance in the neighborhood of the little house in the Bronx, where they had located Brunell, the one-time forger.
With assurances of an early return, Morrow contrived to beat a retreat without arousing the suspicions of the bartender, but he went out into the pale, wintry, sunlight with his brain awhirl. To his apprehensive mind a raid on a plant in the Bronx could mean only one place the little map-making shop of Jimmy Brunell. Something had happened in his absence; some one had betrayed the old forger.
"But let me tell you, Wally, I don't like the look of that 'See Walter Pennold of Brooklyn, on the note in the bank. S'pose they was trying to trace him through us?" "You're talkin' like a blame' fool, Mame. Them securities has been there for years, forgotten. Everybody knows that me and Brunell was pals in the old days, but no one's got nothin' on us now, and he give up the game years ago."
And what actual proof had he of their criminal connection with the alleged bankruptcy of Pennington Lawton? He had established, to his own satisfaction, at least, that the mortgage on the family home on Belleair Avenue had been forged, and by Jimmy Brunell.
Lindsay for that statement is immaterial to this narrative, but it suffices that Walter Pennold returned to the sharp-tongued wife of his bosom with only one obstacle in his thoughts between himself and a goodly share of the coveted two hundred thousand dollars. That obstacle was an extremely healthy fear of Jimmy Brunell.
Evidently Brunell or his daughter had paused long enough in their flight to burn armfuls of old papers possibly incriminating ones. On the table was the débris of a hasty meal. Morrow poured some milk from the pitcher into a saucer and placed it on the floor for the hungry kitten; then, taking the lamp, he started on a tour of inspection through the house.
Morrow gripped the soft, elusive bundle of fur with desperate firmness and looked across the street. Evidently he was not the only one impatient for her arrival. The doorway opposite had opened, and Jimmy Brunell stood peering anxiously forth into the darkness. At that moment the kitten emitted a fearsome yowl, which Morrow smothered hastily with his coat.
In the meantime Guy Morrow, from his post of observation in the window of the little cottage on Meadow Lane, had watched the object of his espionage for several fruitless days fruitless, because the actions of the man Brunell had been so obviously those of one who felt himself utterly beyond suspicion.
I've come of my own free will, to tell you all you want to know, and prove it, too!" "Sit down, all of you. Brunell, you forged the signature to the mortgage on Pennington Lawton's home, at Paddington's instigation?" "Yes, sir. And the signature on the note given for the loan from Moore, and the whole letter supposed to be from Mr.
"Yes, sir " The young man paused in sudden confusion. "She's a very quiet, respectable, proud sort of young woman, Mr. Blaine not at all the kind you would expect to find the daughter of an old crook like Jimmy Brunell. And by the way, here's a funny coincidence!
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