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 looked like it. But Glenn doubted the details of the story and felt sure the Oriental had made up that part and had really received the messages by mail or in some such way, at his own place.

And so, when, toward morning, Glenn heard a faint sound, which awoke him, he didn’t, at first, think it might mean anything of interest.

He listened, however, but he heard nothing more.

A moment later he saw or thought he saw a mere speck of light as if from a pocket flashlight held by some one in the den.

Glenn was a good watchman, and his getting up out of bed was absolutely noiseless. So was his progress across the room and into the little back hall. From here he could see—even as Charley had seen—the spot where the dead body had been found. And there, bending over, as Pearl Jane might have bent over, was a dark figure—a man, searching on the floor.

The tiny flashlight gave but a point of light, but by its single ray, the intruder was intently, eagerly looking for something.

Awaiting his time, Glenn continued to watch. The man’s motions were so slow, his actions so deliberate, the policeman felt sure he could spring at him when he got ready, and still catch him unawares.

The man’s back was toward Glenn, but he felt certain it was Locke. He could see dark hair, rather long, be neath the soft, dark hat. He caught sight of a flowing tie—these things, he had been told, spelled Locke.

Slowly, still, the man turned to the nearby table. This was getting pretty close to Glenn’s hiding place, and he concluded the time was ripe.

The man reached for something on the table, and at