far as was known, Antonio Tostini had had the good taste never to appear on the scene again. 

 Here were many details which I had been anxious, but not decently able, to learn, as the Misses Callenders' shipboard friendship had confined itself to lending me books, telling me what to do in New York, inviting me to call, listening to talk about the war or the play, and allowing me to snapshot them on deck. 

 Having looked through the dossier, I took my departure with the key. It was only a duplicate, yet I couldn't rid myself of a queer, superstitious feeling for the thing, as if it were offered to me by the unseen hand of a dead man. 

 I taxied back to my hotel and mentioned to a clerk that I wanted to see houses and flats in the direction of Riverside Drive. Could he direct me to an agent who would have the letting of apartments in that neighbourhood? If my foreign way of expressing myself amused him, he hid his mirth and looked up in a big book the addresses of several agents. 

 I had not cared to be too specific in my questions, but I chose the address nearest the street I wanted, taxied there, found the agent, and inquired if there were anything to be let. It was the street in which Perry Callender-Graham and Ned, his brother, had met their death. 

 "I have been recommended to that particular street by an American friend in England," I said.  "He has told me that it's very quiet. There are several apartment houses in it, are there not? 

 "Yes," replied a spruce young man who looked willing to let me half residential New York.  "But it's a favourite street; I'm afraid there's nothing doing there now. As for houses, they're all owned, or have been rented for many years. A little farther north or south——" 

 "Hold on," I pulled him back.  "Somebody might be induced to let. My friend was telling me about a charming flat—oh, apartment you call it?—in that street which a friend of his took—-let me see, it must have been three years ago or thereabouts. Anyhow, not later. He had reason to believe I might get that very flat. Stupid of me! I can't remember the number or name—whichever it was—of the house. I know the flat was a furnished one, however; and if your agency——" 

 "Oh, if the apartment was furnished, and changed hands three years ago, there's only one it could be, if you're sure it's in that street?" 

 "I'm sure," I 

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