The Mansion of Mystery. Chester K. Steele

who seemed to be always wanting money. Once my father took a hand and said his wife shouldn't give Dick a cent more, as he only squandered it. That made Tom angry, and he had a quarrel with my father, and after that when Tom came he would ask to see only his mother, although he and I remained on fairly good terms."

      "Tom was here the day before the tragedy?"

      "Yes. I think he came to see his mother about some private business.

       They had a long talk in her room, and she seemed to be quite excited

       when he went away. I don't know what it was all about. But, Mr.

       Adams, are you not hungry, and won't you have a lunch?"

      "Thanks, I'll take a bite."

      The lunch was served in Margaret's apartment, and the detective did ample justice to it, for he never allowed business to interfere with his appetite. As he ate, the girl watched him curiously.

      "Mr. Adams," she said presently, "do you know, you do not seem a bit like a detective to me—I mean like the detectives you read about—the men going about in wonderful disguises and the like, and doing marvelous things? And yet, I know you have a wonderful reputation—Raymond told me about it."

      At that he smiled broadly. "Wonderful disguises, eh? Well, I use them when I think them necessary, and not otherwise. When I started out, years ago, I used a great many more than I do now. To me a mystery of this sort is a good deal like a cut-up picture that you give a child to put together. First, you want to make sure you have all the pieces, and then you want to sit down, put on your thinking-cap, and match the pieces together. To you this is an awful tragedy," his tone softened greatly, "to me it is another case, nothing more. Work such as I have done is bound to harden a fellow, in spite of all of his finer feelings. But I feel for you and you have my sympathy."