JUDGE WILLIAM BARSTOW, ex-judge of the criminal bench, lived in a handsome residence, in the most fashionable part of the city.

There must have been at least four acres in the grounds, besides what was occupied by the house and garage. This was beautifully parked, and upon the whole was one of the show places of the town.

I confess I was rather loath, after we got started to call upon the judge at that hour of the night, but Dean urged me on. "Sometimes," said he, "a cold trail leads to a hot scent. He can't do more than have the butler buttle us out the door."

"All right," I assented. "All I ask is that you go first and take the first buttle for your own."

We dropped from the car at the corner and went up the winding walk to the front door. "Servants and solicitors at the rear," I reminded Jimmy. But he shrugged in high disdain. "Shut up," he told me, "and try to remember that you represent the majesty of the press."

Jimmy punched the bell rather viciously.

Then we stood and waited until the door was opened, and a very imposing functionary demanded the cause of our call. We gave him our cards and requested a few moments of the judge's time. After showing us into a reception room the servant departed to see whether we got it or not, and Jimmy heaved a sigh.

"He didn't seem impressed a bit," he complained. "I wish I'd worn my other tie."

"The one you have on will be enough to hang all our chances," I told him.

He was just about to make some sort of an answer when the butler returned and informed us that the judge would be down in a moment, and desired us to wait.

Although it was ten o'clock when the judge came down, he was dressed for the street, even to a top hat, light evening coat, and gloves. He came across toward where we had risen, with an extended hand, and greeted us smiling.

"You will pardon me, gentlemen," he said, "but I have just been called to a client of mine, and can give you but a few moments to-night. Still, as I am going to cross the business section, you can ride along in the motor, and we can talk on the way."

"What we want to learn will take but a moment, Judge Barstow," said Dean. "You no doubt saw the account of the death of a Miss More in the evening papers. It would be in the late editions, I suppose, though I didn't see one myself.

"We want to know just what you knew about the girl. So far we have been unable to find out anything about her at all, save that she was a professional stenographer."

"Yes, yes," said the judge. "I didn't see the papers, but I had heard of the affair. You see, a reporter was here earlier in the evening. I can, however, tell you but little of interest, I fear.

"She was at one time employed in my office, but later left it because she thought she could do better by doing piece-work. She was a very efficient typist indeed. Although she was no longer with me, I sometimes took or sent work to her when I wanted it done with particular care. But no doubt my car is waiting. May I give you a lift down-town?"

We accepted the invitation, and after we had taken seats in the judge's limousine Dean again renewed his search for facts.

"Did you call to see her last night, Judge Barstow?" he asked.

"I did," said Barstow. "Come to think of it, I left some papers under the door, with a note asking her to get them ready to-night. I meant to call for them, but was out of town all day, and the thing had slipped my mind. She was out at the time I called, and I asked the elevator operator to call her attention to the fact that they were thrust under the door."

"Did you often leave important papers lying around like that?" said Dean. "Are you in the habit of doing so?"

In the light of the street lamps we could see Barstow silently laugh. "No, Mr. Dean," he chuckled, "I am not. But it was safe to do so with Miss More. Her training in my office, together with her natural intelligence, made her sure to comprehend what I needed. Your point was well taken, however, I must admit."

"What do you know about the girl's antecedents?" I inquired.

"Not a thing," said Judge Barstow. "She always seemed quiet and well-behaved. If I remember rightly, she once told me that she was an orphan."

"Did you know that she expected to fall heir to some money?" I hazarded, thinking it likely that he would be asked to look after her affairs if she really expected to get such a sum as she had mentioned in the note Dean had found.

"I did not," said Barstow, and I fancied he frowned.

"Well, she was engaged, wasn't she?" said Dean.

"She had a young man," said the judge, as he offered us each a cigar from a case and lit one himself. "He was a chap of about twenty-eight, I should say. Whether they expected to marry or not Miss More never said."

"Did she ever tell you his name?" said Dean.

Barstow nodded. "I met him once or twice," he replied. "Watson, I think the name was."

The auto swerved and slid in toward the curb in front of the office of the Dispatch. Dean and I got out, and Barstow shook us each by the hand.

"Sorry," said he, "that I couldn't help you boys more at this time, but if there is anything I can do in the future, don't hesitate to call upon me." The door of the limousine closed on the last word and the machine got under way.

I turned to Dean. "Your cold trail is pretty well frozen up," I said. "I'm going to the office, and then to bed."

"I don't know. At least we got the fellow's name," said Jimmy. "Come and walk down the block. Barstow's office is in the Kernan Building, and while you have been babbling an auto stopped down there. It may be his car, and it may not—I'm for finding out."

We walked along slowly, and stopped just short of the office building, before which stood a motor with its engine throttled down. Jimmy pointed to the number and grinned. "It's he, all right," he announced. "I thought he said he had a client to see."

"Maybe he had to get some papers," I suggested.

Dean merely nodded and stepped back into the shadow of the building wall. "Anyway, I'm going to wait till he comes out," he announced.

Of course I stayed along.

Five and ten minutes passed, and then Judge Barstow hurried from the Kernan entrance, entered the car, and rode off. But as he entered the machine he spoke to the driver, and both Jimmy and I distinctly caught the one word "Home!"

I looked at Dean, and he upon his part looked at me. Finally: "Was the alleged client a plant?" he muttered. "Did he really just want to give us the shake?" Then he grinned. "Oh, I don't know about this trail being so cold, after all, Glace, old chap."

I confess I was puzzled. It had been a trying day. I shook a sadly topsy-turvy head at my friend Dean. "Suppose we try the police station and see what they have done. The more I see of this thing, the more muddled and interested I get."

Dean locked his arm in mine and we set out, walking for the most part in silence, each busy with his own thoughts, until such time as the green lights of the station threw a ghastly light across the sidewalk, and we turned into its door.

It was a night of surprises; first the papers under the rug, then Judge Barstow's peculiar conduct, and now another which awaited us in the precincts of constituted law. At out first inquiry the sergeant laughed. "Hain't you heard?" he asked.

"Heard what?" we chorused in reply.

"Why, they've pinched the girl's sweetheart. Looks like they've got him with the goods on, too."

Here was news indeed. Dean reached into his pocket and drew out a couple of cigars, which he solemnly laid on the sergeant's desk.

"Here," said he. "I was going to smoke them myself, but I guess they belong to you. We've been taking a Rip Van Winkle, Glace and I. Suppose you wind us up and give us the right time."

"Nothin' to it," said the sergeant, biting on one of the brown rolls. "This afternoon after everybody had left the hotel, a young feller answerin' to the description of the girl's man comes into the hotel and gets on the elevator and gets off at five. The elevator kid is wise to him, havin' took him to the girl's rooms more than once, an' he beats it down an' puts the office wise.

"In the mean time th' feller goes to the girl's room an' runs into our man, who was still waitin' for the dead-wagon from the morgue. He seems surprised an' asks what's wrong. Of course Johnson laughs in his face, an' the guy gets kinder fresh. Just then th' manager comes up an' tips Johnson off, an' he starts to make a pinch.

"Well, the feller tried to put up a fight, an' Johnson had to club him 'fore he'd be good. They brings him in, and when we searches him we finds a lady's watch, with the girl's name engraved in it, in the fob pocket of his pants, an' also a swell diamond ring that fit the third finger of her left hand. It sure looked good to us, so we sent him back. Pretty quick work that, eh?"

"If you've got the right man, it's chain lightning," said Dean.

"If?" said the sergeant. "Say, what yer want to talk like that for, Dean?"

"Well, what did the fellow say?" Jimmy asked.

" 'Bout the usual thing," the officer growled. "Told a fairy story 'bout havin' broke his watch, an' the girl's lettin' him have hers to wear. Said the ring was one that had been his mother's what he was goin' to give the girl for a engagement ring. Claimed he didn't know she was dead."

"Well, if he did, why did he go up there?" I asked.

"He didn't say," said the sergeant with a grin.

"Had the ring been altered in size?"

"I don't know that either. I didn't look to see."

"If it had been we could probably trace the job and verify his statement if true?"

The sergeant nodded and got up. "I put 'em away in the safe, after we tuk 'em offen' the guy," he explained as he crossed the railed-in space back of which he sat. "Suppose we have a look at 'em now."

For a moment he busied himself with the safe, running methodically through the combination, with counting and pauses between each turn.

Presently, when the door swung open, he found the property taken from the recently arrested individual, and returned to his desk with the watch and the ring.

It was the latter which claimed our first attention. Dean and I went over and stood beside the desk, and together the three of us examined the thing. Nowhere in all its circumference was there any sign of a cut or a mend, in fact of any sort of work at all. To all appearances it was now as it was when originally made.

"It looks bad," said Dean. "Of course it is possible that the girl wore the same size ring as his mother, but it seems hardly likely to me." He picked up the watch.

It was a lady's ordinary chatelaine case of gold, contained a Waltham movement, and was engraved on the inner side of the case with the girl's name, and a date. Apparently it might have been a present to her at some time.

"What do you think?" said Dean as he laid it down.

"It looks like a real pinch," I was forced to admit.

The sergeant cocked Jimmy's cigar in a corner of his mouth and hooked his thumbs into his vest. Presently he blew out a great cloud of smoke, rose and gathered up the trinkets, preparatory to putting them away. Then he began to chuckle. "It's a sure enough pinch," he said.

"What was the chap's name?" I bethought me to ask.

"Wasson," said the now smiling sergeant. "Reginald Wasson for short."

I glanced at the clock. It was almost twelve. I rose and rolled a cigarette. "Come On, Jimmy," I said, "we've got a lot of writing to do. Good night, sergeant, there was sure some class to that work."

"Wasson—Watson," muttered Dean when we were outside. "Well, I guess Barstow meant to give it to us straight. The names sure are something alike. I wonder if they've really got the right man. What do you think?"

"I think I'm going down and write some sort of a story and get to bed," said I. "Only you can bet yourself a dinner I'd hate to be in Reggie Wasson's shoes."

Well, I did go to bed when my work was finished, but I didn't go to sleep. The events of the day kept buzzing like pinwheels in my brain.

It had been a most unusual day. First was my visit to the peculiar individual who dwelt on the Urania's roof, with all its unexpected circumstances, climaxing in the character of the man himself. That had been like a page torn bodily from some old romance. If written, half those who read it would hardly believe.

Men didn't build grand staircases to a roof-garden, unless for profit, nor inlay plates of mystical warnings, set over a mechanism for ringing soft-toned bells, from purely altruistic motives nowadays. Almost I began to wonder if I had seen it myself.

Then my mind switched to the later events, which Dual had partly foretold. How did he know? The girl had been handsome in her way. Who had killed her, and why? Where was she going to get so much money?

Wasson was arrested. Was he guilty? If not, how had he got hold of the watch and ring? Might his explanation be true?

I tossed, and fretted, and turned. It was hot. I had a vision of a long crystal glass with ice floating in it, full of a peculiar, limpid liquid, and all at once I was consumed with thirst. What was it Dual had said to me? "I will see you soon," or something like that. Well, why not. I wanted to see him. I wanted to drink again of that beverage which he alone possessed. I wanted to talk over this case with the peculiar man who had first told me that there was a case.

I rolled over and berated myself for an imbecile, but the idea wouldn't down. It was too hot to sleep.

I made up my mind I would walk down to the Urania and look up at the tower. I even thought that if there was a light I might go up and see if Dual was awake. Somehow I felt that he was the sort of person who might at times turn night into day.

I kicked off the hot sheet and began to dress, actually hurrying into my clothes, like one in a great haste. After a bit I went out and stole softly down-stairs. 'Way over in the east there was a faintly grayer line in the darkness, and the air felt cooler outside.

I took a great breath of it into my lungs and started away toward where the Urania raised itself toward the still dark central sky. An early milk-cart rattled by. A newspaper-wagon trundled toward a morning train. Night owls were slinking home.

It was that peculiar hour between darkness and dawn, when the night is dead and the day is not yet awake, and things take on an almost mysterious air. I remember that some sparrows twittered in a tree as I passed, and I thought whimsically of how cold they were going to be six months from now.

After a while I came to the darkened entrance of the Urania, and though I had not seen any light from below as I approached, I turned in as though led by some compiling force, and groaning in very spirit, began to mount the stairs. Up, and up, and up. After a bit I lost count and simply kept on until I should see the great staircase. Then I would know I was at the top.

After an hour of seeming climbing it appeared, and I went up it, and across the glass inlay of the plate. Far off I heard the mellow bells, and as I reached the door of the tower it swung inward silently, before I could lift a hand to knock or even look for a bell. The servant of the afternoon stood before me rubbing a sleepy eye. Without waiting for me to speak, he led me to an adjoining apartment, and pointed to a stair.

"The master awaits you," he said.

I began climbing again, and after a time I came out into a broad room, which seemingly took in the entire top of the tower. Its sides seemed to be mainly of glass, so that one could look directly out into the night, giving one a temporary sensation as of floating in space.

A dim light burned at the head of the stairs, and by its feeble rays and the beginning dawn outside, I could see various instruments of an apparently scientific nature, arranged about the room.

At first I did not see Dual, but as I advanced a step he turned from a telescope, which was pointed out of an opened portion of the glass casings, and addressed me by name. "Mr. Gordon Glace," said he, "you are a fairly hard individual to call."