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 or criminal of any sort. He was her Tommy, and some day they would be happy together. He had said so, and that was enough for Pearl Jane.

It was the next day before Lane obtained an interview with Andrew Barham.

He had waited on that gentleman’s convenience, and when he was finally admitted to his presence the detective looked covertly at the man whose acquaintance he was about to make.

“You wished to see me?” Barham said, courteously. “On what errand?”

And suddenly, Lane made up his mind.

“Regarding the mystery of your wife’s death,” he said, frankly. “I wish to take up the case, and solve it, if possible. I should be glad to know your attitude toward me—or toward my work.”

“Mr. Lane,” and Barham looked very grave, “I suppose it is right and just that the mystery of my wife’s death should be solved. But—I want to say, that I, personally, would greatly prefer to have the whole matter dropped. I should prefer never to know the truth of the case, rather than have certain painful revelations made, that must be made if the whole story comes out.”

“You refer, Mr. Barham, to your wife’s unfortunate losses at Bridge?”

“And her consequent wrong-doing in connection therewith,” said Andrew Barham, looking at Lane unflinchingly; “and not only that phase of the matter, but other equally distressing circumstances. These things would redound to the grief and pain of my wife’s mother, an elderly lady, and also to the disparagement, even disgrace of my wife’s memory. I hold that the only good done by a solution of the mystery of her death would be