If Tom Owens had been in Liverpool there would be a message for him, and he was not disappointed.
Old Broadbrim found in a secret box in the house this brief note:
"I have found him. He leaves for London to-night, and so do I.
Tom"
With this encouraging message from the Scotland Yarder, Old Broadbrim went leisurely to his breakfast, and soon after finishing it started for London.
Nothing happened to mar the progress of the chase, and at last he stepped from the cars in the great station.
He secured a hansom and drove to the lodgings of Tom Owens and sprang up the steps.
Everything seemed to depend on what the suspected man had done.
Was Rufus Redmond still in London, or had he eluded Tom?
A few moments would tell.
Old Broadbrim rapped at the detective's door and heard his well-known step as he sprang across the floor.
In another second he stood face to face with his friend.
"Just in time," said Tom, pointing to a bottle of porter on the table. "I was about to indulge in a little happiness and you can take part."
But Old Broadbrim had other things on his mind, and as he took the proffered seat he looked anxiously at the Scotland Yard ferret.
"Oh, I've got him located," smiled Tom. "It's all right. I guess he's good for some days in London; you can take your time to him. He's a slick fellow, by the way, and gave me a little chase from Liverpool, but I've landed my fish."
"I'm glad to hear it!" cried Old Broadbrim. "That will keep me from beating the Australian bush for him, as he seemed to be heading for that part of the world."
The porter was "downed," and the two detectives talked on other matters for an hour.
Old Broadbrim detailed the crime on Fifth Avenue, and did not forget to mention the murder of Jason Marrow in the little house near the mouth of the alley.
Tom Owens was of the opinion that both crimes were the work of the same hand, and that the tenant of the alley was killed to keep him silent regarding a secret which he undoubtedly possessed.
"You're on the right trail, Broadbrim," said the Englishman. "This Rufus Redmond, alias Merle Macray, is the very person you want, and we'll see that your trail ends right here in London."
In a short time the two detectives sauntered from the room, and Tom Owens guided the American to a certain part of the city, where he had located Rufus Redmond.
"When does the next steamer depart for Melbourne, or for that part of the globe?" anxiously inquired the American detective.
"One leaves to-day," was the reply. "I happen to know, because one of my friends is going out in her and he gave me good-by this morning."
"Why not see if our friend, the murderer, is to be a passenger?"
Tom Owens looked a little astonished by this suggestion.
"It's all right. He will be in London after the Intrepid has sailed," said he. "He is installed in the little red house yonder, and we can lay hands on him whenever we care to."
But Old Broadbrim persisted until the Scotland Yarder yielded.
"I'm afraid it's too late to see the Intrepid," said Tom, glancing at his watch. "Her time is up, and ere this she is off."
"But we can see the books of the company."
It did not take them long to find the office of the Australian Steamship Company, and Old Broadbrim ran over the list of passengers, with Owens looking over his shoulder.
Suddenly Old Broadbrim uttered a cry.
His finger had stopped at a certain name on the list.
Tom Owens looked again and echoed the exclamation.
"Too late!" he said. "Well, it stumps me!"
Old Broadbrim did not reply, but merely smiled as he turned away.
The Intrepid was gone.
Once more the prey had slipped through his fingers by a few hours, and the long trail stretched before him.
Silently the detective walked from the steamer office.
Owens was chagrined.
For some minutes he did not speak, and his silence showed his deep disappointment.
"To think that the rascal should take Tom Owens in so cleverly!" suddenly cried the Scotland Yarder. "It makes me feel sick. I tracked him from Liverpool so nicely, and had everything snug for you, Mr. Broadbrim; but here he slips through my fingers like a Thames eel; it's too bad. I'll go with you and help you find him in Australia."
"No," said the Quaker, laying his hand on the other's arm. "This is my trail from now on, and this scoundrel will be hunted to his doom if I have to track him all over the world!"
"You can't get another steamer out of London port for Melbourne inside of a week," said Owens.
"Will I have to lie here in agony that long?" was the reply.
"It seems so, but you'll find plenty here to interest you, and we'll see that time doesn't hang heavily on your hands. Redmond has got clean off, and neatly, too, but we'll find out if he left anything behind."
The two detectives crossed the street to the little red house and Owens knocked.
The woman who came to the door held it open for them to enter and in they went.
"We are looking for an empty front room," said the Scotland Yarder.
"I've just had one vacated," was the reply. "It's on the second floor, and the young man who held it went off to-day and will not be back."
"Might we look at the room, madam?"
The woman led the way to the stairs and said to Owens:
"First room front up there. You can find it easily. I have to look after the kitchen just now, but will be up in a little while."
This was just the opportunity the detectives wanted, and in a few seconds they stood in the room overhead.
It was a plainly furnished apartment with a few chairs, and several coarse prints on the walls.
"Not a very fine nest for our bird," smiled the American detective. "He was not very choice, for he knew he would not keep the room very long, but that he would soon be the occupant of a ship's cabin."
"Exactly. He made a fire in the grate and left some ashes of paper, I see."
Old Broadbrim stepped across the room and bent over the ashes on the little hearth.
Scooping up a handful of fragments, he came back to the table and sat down.
Tom Owens bent over his shoulder and saw Old Broadbrim separate the bits of charred paper with fingers as delicate as a woman's.
All at once the detective stopped and pointed at two pieces which lay side by side.
"What is it?" eagerly asked Owens.
"A letter in the same handwriting that we found in the house on Fifth Avenue."
"That settles the matter. You are surely on the right trail."
The face of the New York detective seemed to light up with a gleam of triumph, and then he swept the papers together and put them into his inner pocket.
"The right trail?" he cried. "Of course, Tom. It remains only to find this man. I'll attend to the rest. We'll fix the crime upon him and there'll be a broken neck under the sheriff's noose."
"But