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"You keep out of this, old man!" I heard the voice of Lloyd Inwood from out of the emptiness. And then Paul's voice crying, "Yes, we've had enough of peacemaking!" From the sound of their voices I knew they had separated. I could not locate Paul, and so approached the shadow that represented Lloyd.
There was a young girl seated at a desk by an open window; she looked up quietly as he entered, then rose leisurely. "Miss Inwood?" "Yes." She was slender, dark-eyed, dark-haired a lovely, wholesome young creature; gracious and graceful.
Pentfield demanded, somewhat with the air of patient fortitude with which one takes the bait of a catch and is aware at the time of the large laugh bound to follow at his expense. Nick Inwood pulled the newspaper from his pocket and began looking it over, saying:
"Not in the least," said the Tracer blandly. He walked into the Captain's bedroom, closing the door behind him; then he stepped over to the telephone, unhooked the receiver, and called up his own headquarters. "Hello. This is Mr. Keen. I want to speak to Miss Borrow." In a few moments Miss Borrow answered: "I am here, Mr. Keen." "Good. Look up the name Inwood.
Try New York first Edith Inwood is the name. Look sharp, please; I am holding the wire." He held it for ten full minutes; then Miss Borrow's low voice called him over the wire. "Go ahead," said the Tracer quietly. "There is only one Edith Inwood in New York, Mr.
Never, by word or sign, did I convey to either the slightest hint of the other's progress, and they respected me for the seal I put upon my lips. Lloyd Inwood, after prolonged and unintermittent application, when the tension upon his mind and body became too great to bear, had a strange way of obtaining relief. He attended prize fights.
I dipped the brush into the seemingly empty pot, and gave him a long stroke across his chest. With the passage of the brush the living flesh disappeared from beneath. I covered his right leg, and he was a one-legged man defying all laws of gravitation. And so, stroke by stroke, member by member, I painted Lloyd Inwood into nothingness.
In the lull at the end of a deal, while the game-keeper was shuffling the deck, Nick Inwood the owner of the game, remarked, apropos of nothing: "I say, Pentfield, I see that partner of yours has been cutting up monkey-shines on the outside." "Trust Corry to have a good time," Pentfield had answered; "especially when he has earned it."
"I have an appointment to consult Miss Inwood," he whispered. "This way, sir," nodded the attendant, and the Tracer signaled the Captain to follow. They climbed several marble stairways, crossed a rotunda, and entered a room a sort of library. Beyond was a door which bore the inscription: ASSISTANT CURATOR
Captain Harren, extremely pink, stood tugging at his short mustache and studying the papers on the desk. "Well?" inquired the Tracer, amused. The young man pointed to the translation with unsteady finger. "W-what on earth does that mean?" he demanded shakily. "Who is Edith Inwood? W-what on earth does that cryptogram mean on the window pane in the photograph? How did it come there?
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