Ashton-Kirk, Secret Agent. John Thomas McIntyre

worked toward each other, what should you think?"

      Fuller looked out at the two stooping figures; the terrier had stopped his capering and lay gnawing one of the cuttings from the hedge, which he held between his paws.

      "They are nearer to each other," said Fuller. "And look! they never exchange a glance. It seems to me," in the low, rapid tone of one to whom an idea had just occurred, "that they desire to speak to each other, but would rather not be observed."

      Before the secret agent could reply to this, Warwick reëntered, and with him was a girl. She was slight and dark and dressed in white. Her most remarkable feature was her eyes; they were big and black and wonderful. Her manner was hushed and fearful; her voice, when she spoke, was sunk almost to a whisper.

      "Philip tells me that you are a very gifted man," she said, after Warwick had spoken the words of presentation. "He says that hidden things are plain to you. I do not understand how or why this is, but nevertheless I am glad that you have come. And I only hope," here one of the slim, white hands trembled upon his sleeve, "that you have come in time."

      "I think," said Ashton-Kirk, quietly, "that you had better make an effort to control yourself. You are cold with fear. It is necessary that you answer a few questions; so try and calm yourself—even if only for that reason."

      "I can't! I can't!" She made a despairing sort of gesture, the great eyes filled with a thrilling terror. "How can I be calm when I read such things in his face?" One hand was upon the arm of the secret agent, the other upon that of young Warwick; she looked first at one and then the other. "Death is near to him," she said. "It is very near to him."

      "No, no!" cried the young Englishman.

      "I tell you, yes! And, perhaps, it is even nearer than I dream. It may be upon the very threshold."

      "My dear girl," cried Warwick.

      "Have you been blind, Philip?" she asked in the same whispering voice as before. "Have you been blind that you have not seen? But no," her tone changing tenderly, "it is not to be expected of you. He has not been a father to you."

      "No," said Warwick, and somehow a second meaning seemed to lurk behind the words, "he has not."

      The girl turned to Ashton-Kirk.

      "Never," she said, "has any one been better or kinder than Dr. Morse has been to me. Everything that I have I owe to him. And so can you wonder that I have been quick to see?"

      "Quick to see—what?"

      "The fear," she answered, "the fear which has gradually taken possession of him. You have seen some of it," to Warwick, "but not all. It is terror of the unseen, of the unknown. It is fear of a danger which he does not understand."

      "You think, then, that Dr. Morse does not know the meaning of these grotesque messages which he has been receiving?"

      "I know that he does not. I have always known it; but just how, I cannot say. This evening, upon opening the letter, he rushed out of the library. I happened to be passing the hall, and heard him cry out: 'Be plain! Who are you? What do you want?'"

      "Is that all you heard?"

      "Yes; for with the last word he threw open the front door and was gone."

      Ashton-Kirk glanced at the two-colored cross.

      "Perhaps," said he, "if we could find the envelope which this came in, it would tell us something."

      "Will you come into the library?" said Warwick.

      As they were moving toward the door, Ashton-Kirk whispered a few quick words to Fuller; the latter nodded and took a seat by the window, partly screened by a hanging and apparently much interested in the lawn.

      The library was a large, high ceilinged room, darkly paneled and with a smoothly polished floor. The chairs were massive oak affairs and there were two huge, flat-topped desks. The bookcases were stuffed with serious, well-handled tomes; at one side was a highboy, the many drawers of which were furnished with glass knobs. Upon the top of this was a large English traveling bag, the strap of which was tightly buckled.

      From the floor near one of the desks Warwick picked up a torn envelope.

      "That is what the paper came in," said he. "I know, because it was I who handed it to him."

      "Postmarked at three o'clock this afternoon at the central station," said Ashton-Kirk. "And the address was written on a typewriter." He threw the envelope upon the desk. "We'll learn nothing from that, except, perhaps, that the sender is one who understands the value of keeping hidden."

      Just then a door was heard to open and close heavily. At the sound Ashton-Kirk noted the girl go swiftly to Warwick's side and whisper something hurriedly.

      "No," said he, and there was just a trace of sharpness in his tone. "Of course not."

      Quick steps were heard in the hall, then a man entered the room.

      "Uncle," said Stella Corbin.

      She went to him and put an arm about him, but his feverishly burning eyes singled out the stranger.

      "It is a friend of Philip's—Mr. Ashton-Kirk. He has been kind enough to visit us."

      There was a disagreeable smile about the thin lips of Dr. Morse as he said:

      "Kind, indeed. We are charmed." Then to Warwick he added, "It is not every one, my dear Philip, who has the power of attracting friends."

      Dr. Morse was a tall man, with high, narrow shoulders and a long, pasty-white face. There were deep, sour-looking lines about his mouth; the short black hair stood up on his head like bristles.

      "To attract friends," said the secret agent, "is rather an enviable knack."

      "It denotes a perfect nature, I have no doubt," replied Dr. Morse, still with the disagreeable smile.

      "And if such a knack exists," said Ashton-Kirk, evenly, "it argues the existence of a counter condition, don't you think, in some others—that of attracting enemies?"

      For a moment there was a dead silence in the room; a look of consternation appeared in the face of the young Englishman. Dr. Morse smoothed back his short, stiff hair and sat down; the smile was still present, but his red-lidded eyes were narrowed in a way that was not at all pleasant.

      "Perhaps you are right—things are usually balanced in some such way. We all have our enemies," he added. "I have read somewhere that the fewer the personal foes, the weaker the man. And since we must have them in order to prove our personality," with a laugh which sounded peculiarly unnatural, "why, we can consider ourselves fortunate if they but stand out where we can see them."

      "Your businesslike enemy seldom fights in the open," commented Ashton-Kirk with the air of a man merely making talk. "Our American politicians could teach you that fact."

      The physician nodded.

      "The ambuscade is effective," he agreed. "I learned its use in the Russo-Japanese war."

      "So!" The secret agent's brows went up. "You served in that war then? What regiment?"

      "The 47th infantry, Siberians."

      "It is peculiar how things come about," smiled Ashton-Kirk. "While waiting for Warwick I noticed that the house in your rear is occupied by Japanese. Rather close quarters for old opponents, is it not?"

      "The Japanese," spoke Dr. Morse, "were the opponents of Russia."

      "I see. You are on good terms with your neighbors, then?"

      "No. They have been there almost as long as I have been here; but I have never spoken to one of them."

      Just then there came a tap upon the door; the old servant woman entered, but at the sight of those present, she halted.

      "I beg your pardon, Simon," she said to Morse. "I did not know you were engaged."

      He