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into my clothes in a minute; Jerry hadn't been able to remain in the house, but I found him walking up and down beside the cab which he had kept.

"Chicago Avenue police station," he said to the driver, and he was in ahead of me. "They took her there," he told me, "from where they found her—on West Division Street near the river."

He had no doubt whatever that she was Dorothy Crewe—his Dot whom he had loved; and, for what had come to her, he was holding himself guilty.

"Steve, she thought she was going with me!" he cried out. "It was my Keeban! There is a Keeban, you see; my Keeban took her away and killed her!"

I jerked in spite of myself. You, of course, cannot understand why without this word of explanation. Jerry and I, as most of our ac-