Fay found himself in the foyer of a splendid suite. He waited, toying with his cap, as the detective passed through a rift in the portiéres which led in the general direction of Fifth Avenue. He was on the point of coughing to attract attention when the curtains parted in invitation.

Sir Arthur Hilton stood by a long window with the white light of a western sky reflected across his furrowed face like the reaching hand of a specter.

“You’re Fay?” he said as the Scotland Yard man backed into the shadow of an inner room.

“Yes. Chester Fay—Mr. George Mott, the reformer’s friend.”

“Good—good and bad! There’s the old Nick to pay. Putney Stephney of Downing Street—a King’s greyhound—with thirty thousand pounds in American banknotes, was found dead on top of a goods-train at Poughkeepsie this morning.”

Fay pulled out a cigarette.

“Murdered!” declared Hilton with a rising voice. “Killed in cold blood somewhere between the steamer dock at West Street and—and Poughkeepsie.”

Fay dragged on the cigarette, thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned forward. His eyes hardened slightly. They fastened within the steady stare of Sir Arthur’s own.

“Facts are these,” resumed the British representative. “Stephney had landed at the dock at ten-twenty last night. Was seen by two of the steamship company’s detectives who were watching all embarking passengers.”

“Was that the Carpathia?” asked Fay.

“Yes—the Carpathia! Stephney came down the gangplank, turned at the customroom, went inside a telephone booth, came out and was observed taking a gray taxi at the foot of the dock. That was the last seen of him until the chief of the railroad detectives at Poughkeepsie found his body on top of a goods-train. Skull was slightly crushed. Pockets rifled. Portfolio, with banknotes and memoranda, missing.”

“Quick work!”

“Beastly quick!” shot back Hilton through rigid lips. “Beastly clever, too!”

The British representative glanced toward the doorway before which the portiéres draped. He strode to Fay’s side and leaned forward as his fingers clutched the investigator’s left shoulder in the grip of a bulldog.

“Stephney didn’t 

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