An hour later he stood once more beneath the roof of the murdered millionaire.
This time he was met by Foster Kipp, the dead man's son, a young man of twenty-five, with an open countenance, but eager and determined.
"I heard of this terrible affair in Albany, whither I went on some business for father. It came sooner than he expected."
"He expected it, then?"
"Yes; once he confided to me that he had an enemy, and said he was 'blacklisted.' I never pressed him for particulars, for he was reticent, but I firmly believe that the blow which fell last night was the one he dreaded."
"It was," said the detective. "Your father was killed by a hand in whose shadow he must have been for at least six months."
"Yes; nearly that long ago I found him in a faint on the carpet of the library, for he had received a warning of some kind and I failed to get the secret from him. It must be the old enemy—the one he made in Europe."
"He traveled through the Continent, then?"
"I believe he made a tour of the world. I recall some of his descriptions of places which are very far apart. But the most terrible thing connected with this is that he should be killed in his own house, deliberately strangled, while Nora was quietly reading in her boudoir upstairs."
"It makes it the more mysterious. The murderer entered by the front door and made his exit that way. He knew the mansion; he knew that your father was at home and unprotected."
"It must have been thus. Had I been at home the blow would not have fallen. He was killed on the eve of his sixty-fourth birthday. Why didn't the monster permit him to round out the year?"
"Perhaps that was in the scheme."
"Heavens! I never thought of that!" cried Foster Kipp. "It must have been a part of the diabolical game—to kill him before he became sixty-four. I remember last year he received a letter which threw him into a white rage, and tearing it up in this room he declared that he would pass this day safely and live many years yet. But it was not to be; the foe found him."
For half an hour longer the detective talked with the son and drew from him all he knew about his father's past.
"I nominate you his avenger," said Foster, looking calmly into Old Broadbrim's face, while they occupied armchairs near the desk in the fatal library. "I send you out on this trail asking you to follow it wherever it leads, through thick and thin, never losing sight of it till you close in upon the murderer. Drag him from his hiding place; stand him under the noose and then come to me for your reward. It will not be small. Father left millions behind, and they are mine now—mine and Nora's, and she joins me in this hunt for the murderer."
Old Broadbrim stood before the young man and looked into his white face, earnest with anxiety and seamed with eagerness that seemed to be devouring him.
"I believe, after talking with Nora, that the enemies are foreign ones," continued Foster Kipp. "Father has within the last five years received letters at intervals which came from some remote corners of the world. One of them, I saw by a fragment of the envelope, came from London, another from Paris and a third from Melbourne. This would seem to indicate the restless nature of the enemy. But the trail leads across the water, Mr. Broadbrim. I am sure of this. It may be a long one, but you are equal to it."
Old Broadbrim stood at the door of the mansion and was looking into Foster's face when he heard a sound in another room, and Miss Nora bounded forward.
"What do you think?" she cried, stopping before the detective. "Is it to be a trail across the water?"
"It looks that way, miss," was the answer.
"Then take this for luck—take it with the prayers of Nora Doon," and she pressed into the detective's hand a little packet quite flat and much smaller than his hand.
Old Broadbrim looked at it, but did not open it.
Placing it in his pocket he shook hands with Foster Kipp and Nora and turned away.
Many a month was to pass ere they looked upon his face again.
Many a dark danger was to be met and surmounted, many a wild scene passed through before he could look upon the sunlight of success, and the path he had selected to tread within the last few hours was a path of death.
In his little office the detective made hasty preparations for departure.
He went in light marching order, but provided in many ways for the long journey.
Booked for London, he packed his little grip, and on the street below looked around upon familiar scenes perhaps for the last time.
He hastened to the White Star offices and went on board the vessel in which he had taken passage.
In the little stateroom he made ready for the voyage, and sat down to think a moment.
All at once the little packet which Nora Doon had placed in his hands came to his mind, and he fished it from the depths of the inner pocket.
With a half smile at his lips the detective opened it slowly and then the smile broadened.
He held in his hand a four-leaved clover, and on the paper upon which it rested were "The best wishes of Nora Doon."
The detective tore the paper into bits, but carefully preserved the little talisman.
Ten minutes later the steamer was moving from her dock and the famous detective went up on deck.
He was on the longest and most exciting trail of his life; the chase across the ocean had begun, and Old Broadbrim, as he looked out over the water, wondered what the end would be.
CHAPTER IV.
THE LONDON TRAIL.
Before stepping upon the deck of the Oceanic Old Broadbrim did two things that have not been recorded.
In the first place, he went back to the office of the Cunard Line and obtained a fair description of the man who had taken passage in the Campania under the name of Rufus Redmond.
This man he had every reason for believing was Merle Macray, the person he wanted.
Having done this, the detective cabled to his friend, Tom Owens, the well-known Scotland Yarder, in London, the description of the passenger, with a request that he watch for him and shadow him till he (Old Broadbrim) could reach England.
He knew that his wishes would be carried out to the letter, and that Tom Owens would spot his man the moment the steamer arrived in Liverpool, so on this score Old Broadbrim rested easy.
No one on board the Oceanic suspected that the plain-looking business man with the agile step and the glossy gray beard was the famous Quaker.
He did not confine himself to his stateroom, but came up on deck to chat with his fellow-travelers, and almost before the vessel had passed Sandy Hook he knew them all.
He could not expect to overtake the Cunarder, therefore he could only hope to reach London and find his man, who, in the meantime, would be shadowed by Tom Owens.
The detective had the promise of a fine voyage and the steamer plowed her way through the deep in magnificent style.
Old Broadbrim was found on deck every day, and as the Oceanic neared the English shore he became a little anxious.
The moment he stepped upon the dock in Liverpool, after a short run, in which the record was nearly broken, he hastened to a little house not far from the pier