tissue of lies. Why, McKenzie is a member of the legislature and a man of high social standing, respected by all who know him. Morrison is of the underworld, and not in McKenzie's class at all. I don't see why you should stop off with Morrison and call on McKenzie. Just the looks of the thing ought to keep you from making such a move."
"Morrison says McKenzie's daughter met him on the train between Williamsburg and Burt City. Do you know anything about that?"
"The conductor of Seventeen, Leason, told me something about it," answered Ruthven reluctantly.
"That looks as though there might be something between Morrison and McKenzie, doesn't it? I'm going to see what sort of a game Morrison is trying to play, anyhow. We'll take the afternoon train to-morrow. That will suit me best."
"And I'm taking the first train in the morning."
"You'll see McKenzie?"
"Certainly. His daughter is a fine girl and a friend of some very good friends of mine. I wish you'd reconsider, Hackett, and not get off at Burt City with this rascally prisoner of yours."
"That's all right, Ruthven," said the detective. "It's a good thing to let Weasel Morrison say to McKenzie's face whatever he's got to say about him. Lies can be nailed in that way quicker than in any other. If McKenzie sent that anonymous letter to Jenkins, tipping off the Weasel's game, then he must have had some secret source of information. I'm going to find out what it is."
Hackett's determination to get off the eastbound train at Burt City was inflexible, and Ruthven yielded the point. After all, he would get to McKenzie several hours before the detective and Morrison could reach him, and he could at least prepare the man for what was to come.
In the afternoon Ruthven bought a new hat at Grandy's, and in the gray dawn of the following morning he went down to the railroad station, boarded the train, and started back toward Burt City. The train was No. 6, and was due at Burt City at eight-thirty. It was the same train Lois had taken when she went to Williamsburg and rode back on Seventeen with Weasel Morrison.
When he disembarked at his destination, Ruthven dropped into a restaurant for a late breakfast. Avoiding the express office, and a discussion with Summerfield that might consume too much time, he proceeded straight to The Emporium. The senior partner greeted him with a wide and quizzical smile.
"You didn't stay with our little party t'other day, eh, Mr. Ruthven?" he said.
"No," was the reply. "I'd like to see Mr. McKenzie."
"He's stayin' home to-day—-hasn't been feelin' real prime for some sort of a while. A little rest is what he needs, and I'm goin' to see that he gets it. How big was that package of Barton's when you seen it last?" Long chuckled. "Still growin'?"
"It was delivered—Tom Barton got his boots," and, with this, Ruthven hastily departed and made for McKenzie's house.
Lois answered his rap at the front door. Her eyes were red, as though she had been weeping, but she made a brave attempt to appear like herself.
"Will you step in, Mr. Ruthven?" she invited.
He entered the hall, left his hat there, and was ushered into a pleasant sitting-room and given a comfortable chair. The silence was broken by the monotonous ticking of a clock and the occasional piping of a canary. A big gray cat arose from a cushion, surveyed the visitor with leisurely interest, and then
