Already the traditional woman had entered the case.
"For one year, Mr. Broadbrim," continued Custer Kipp, coming back to the original proposition. "Is it a bargain?"
The detective sat silent and rigid for a few seconds.
Never before had a proposition of that sort been made to him.
It would take him from cases that might spring up to demand his attention.
After all, the man before him might have no enemy at all, and the time spent in watching him might prove lost time, though twenty-five thousand dollars would be his at the end of the year.
"If you accept, remember that for one year you belong to me, will be subject to my commands, will have to go whither I send you, and you will not be permitted to follow your calling beyond them."
"It binds one rather close," said Old Broadbrim.
"I want a man who will belong to me. He must devote his whole time to keeping the hand of death away from me, and——"
Custer Kipp leaned forward and opened the desk.
Running his hand into it, he pulled out a package and untied it before the detective's eyes.
"This is a picture of the man as he looked twenty years ago," he said, throwing a photograph on the desk. "He has changed some, of course, but he is the same cool-headed demon he was then."
"And the other—the woman?"
The nabob started.
"I have no picture of her save the one I carry in my memory. I haven't seen her since a fatal night at Monaco."
He laid the picture down and looked squarely at the detective.
"No more now. Will you accept?"
It was a novel and romantic engagement and appealed strongly to the detective's curiosity.
He thought rapidly for ten seconds, after which he looked into Custer Kipp's eyes and said:
"I accept."
"A thousand thanks! I feel younger already—I feel that I will yet escape this vendetta, that I have years of useful life ahead and that I will die in my house when my time comes. But one word. Not a whisper of this bargain beyond the walls of my house. Not a word to my children, for I call Nora my child the same as Foster. It must be our secret, Mr. Broadbrim."
"It shall be ours."
"That's right. Now, sir, if you will come back to-morrow I will give you the commission in detail. I will study up all the points you should know, and then you will see into your task and will know just what you will be expected to do."
Old Broadbrim, a man of brevity, picked up his hat.
"I will be here," he said. "Thee can trust me," using, as he did at times, the Quaker formula.
In another moment he had turned his back on the millionaire and was walking toward the hall.
At the door he glanced over his shoulder and saw the figure of Custer Kipp bent over the desk, and the face was buried in the arms.
Old Broadbrim closed the door and went away.
Down in his office, in the room in which he had thought out more than one tangle of crime, he threw himself into his armchair and took up a cigar.
"What have I done?" he asked himself. "Is the man mad? What is this invisible fear which almost paralyzes him? Why does he send for me to watch him for a year when he could fly to the ends of the world, for he has money to take him anywhere, and thus escape the enemy? But I'll do my part."
The day deepened, and the shadows of night fell over the city.
Old Broadbrim came forth, and walked a few squares after which he turned suddenly and rapped at a door belonging to a small house in a quiet district.
The portal was opened by a man not very young, but wiry and keen-eyed.
"Come in. I've been waiting for you," said this person. "I have a case for you—one which the police have not yet discovered. It will produce rich results."
The detective's countenance seemed to drop.
Here it was already.
He began to see how foolish he had been to make a bargain with Custer Kipp.
"What is it, Clippers?" he asked.
"It's just the sort o' case you've been looking for," was the reply. "On the next street is a dead man—a man whose life must have gone out violently yesterday or last night. You don't know him, but I do. Jason Marrow has been a study and a puzzle to me for three years. We have met occasionally, but never got on familiar terms. Now he's dead and is there yet, in his little room, with marks of violence on his throat and the agony in his glassy eyes. Won't you come with me? I have been holding the matter for you."
Old Broadbrim said he would at once take a look at the mystery, and Clippers, his friend, offered to conduct him to the scene of the tragedy.
The two entered a little house near the mouth of an alley, and Clippers led the way to a room to the left of the hall.
"He's a mystery—got papers of importance hid in the house, but we'll find them in course of time," he chattered. "It's going to be a deep case, just to your liking, Mr. Broadbrim, but you'll untangle it, for you never fail."
At this moment the pair entered the room and the hand of Clippers pointed to a couch against the wall.
Old Broadbrim stepped nimbly forward and bent over the bed.
A rigid figure lay upon it, and the first glance told him that death had been busy there.
"Who is he?" asked the detective.
"It's Jason Marrow. You didn't know him. Precious few people did. The papers which he has hidden will tell us more and we'll find them. It's your case, Mr. Broadbrim."
"I can't take it, Clippers."
The other fell back with a cry of amazement.
"You can't take it?" he gasped. "In the name of Heaven, are you mad, Mr. Broadbrim?"
"I hope not."
"But it's just the sort o' case you like. There's mystery in it. Killed by some one as yet unknown. Strangled by a hand unseen and dead in his little den."
"Yes, I know, Clippers, but it's not for me."
"Why not?"
"I'm engaged."
"On something better? On a deeper mystery than the death of Jason Marrow?"
"I don't know. I only know that I can't take this matter into my hands."
"Well, I'm stumped!" cried Clippers.
"And I'm sorry," answered the great detective. "I'll tell the police. I'll see that Hargraves or Irwin get the job. That's all I can do. For one year I belong to—to another master."
There was no reply to this; Clippers showed that he was "stumped."
CHAPTER II.
THE MIDNIGHT MURDER.
"Come!" said Clippers, when he got second wind, "maybe you can get the other one to release you."
"He won't do that. The bargain's been sealed."
"You're not going to retire?"
"Well, hardly."
"That's good, anyhow. If the other fellows, Hargraves or Irwin, get at fault you won't refuse to join in the hunt for