It still lacked twenty minutes of nine o'clock that night when Harry¹ Kent turned into the Saratoga apartment hotel, and not waiting to take one of the elevators, ran up the staircase to the apartment which had been occupied jointly² by Jimmie Turnbull and Philip Rochester. Kent had already selected the right key from among those on the bunch he had found in Rochester's desk at the office, and slipping it into the key-hole of the outer door, he turned the lock and walked noiselessly inside the dark apartment.  
The soft click of the outer door as it swung to was hardly noticeable, and Kent, pausing only long enough to get his breath from his run up the staircase, stepped into the living room and reached for the electric light switch. Instead of encountering the cold metal of the switch his groping fingers closed over warm flesh.
 
Startled as he was, Kent retained enough presence of mind to grasp the hand tightly; the next second a man hurled³ himself upon him and he gave back. Furniture in the path of the struggling men was overturned as they fought in silent desperation. Kent would have given much for light. He strained his eyes to see his adversary⁴, but the pitch darkness concealed⁵ all but the vaguest outline. As Kent got his second wind, confidence in his strength returned and he redoubled his efforts; suddenly his hands shifted their grip and he swung his adversary backward, pinning him against the wall.
 
A faint, sobbing⁶ breath escaped the man, and Kent felt the whole figure against which he pressed, quiver and relax; the taut⁷ muscles of chest and arms grew slack, collapsed⁸.
 
Kent stood in wonderment, peering ahead, his hands empty—the man had vanished!
 
Drawing a long, long breath Kent felt his way back to the electric switch and pressed the button, lighting⁹ both the wall brackets and the table lamps. With both hands on his throbbing¹⁰ temples he gazed at the over-turned chairs; they, as well as his aching throat, testified to his encounter having been a reality and not a fantastic dream. His glance traveled this way and that about the room and rested longest on the opposite side of the room where he had pinned the man to the wall. Wall—! Kent leaned against a tall highboy and laughed weakly, immoderately. He had pushed the man straight against the door leading into Rochester's bedroom, and not, as he had supposed, against the solid wall.
 
The man had been quick-witted enough to grasp the situation; his pretended weakness had caused Kent to relax his hold, a turn of the knob of the door, which swung inward, and he had made his escape into the bedroom, leaving Kent staring into dark, empty space.
 
Gathering¹¹ his wits together Kent hurried into the bedroom—it was empty; so also was the bathroom opening from it. From there Kent made the rounds of the apartment, switching on the light until the place was ablaze¹², but in spite of his minute search of closets and under beds and behind furniture he could find no trace of his late adversary. Kent stopped long enough in the pantry to refresh himself with a glass of water, then he returned to the living room and sat down in an arm chair by the window. He wanted time to think.
 
How had the man vanished so utterly¹³, leaving no trace behind in the apartment? The window in Rochester's room was locked on the inside; in fact, all the apartment windows were securely fastened, he had found on his tour of inspection¹⁴; the only one not locked was the oval, swinging window high up in the side wall of the bathroom; only a child could squeeze through it, Kent decided¹⁵. The window looked into a well formed by the wings of the apartment house, and had a sheer drop of fifty feet to the ground below.
 
But for his unfortunate luck in backing the man against the bedroom door instead of the wall he would not have escaped, but how had the man realized so instantly that he was against a door in the pitch darkness? It certainly showed familiarity with his surroundings. Kent sat upright as an idea flashed through his brain—was the man Philip Rochester?
 
Kent scouted¹⁶ the idea but it persisted. Suppose it had been Philip Rochester awakened¹⁷ from a drunken slumber¹⁸ by his entrance in the dark; if so, nothing more likely than that he had mistaken him, Kent, for a burglar and sprung at him. But why had he disappeared without revealing his identity to Kent? Surely the same reason worked both ways—the man who had wrestled¹⁹ with him was as unaware²⁰ of Kent's identity as Kent was of his—they had fought in the dark and in silence.
 
Kent laughed aloud. The situation had its amusing side; then, as recollection came of the scene in the bank that morning, his mirth changed to grim seriousness. At his earnest solicitation²² and backed by Benjamin Clymer's endorsement²³ of his plan, Colonel McIntyre had agreed to give him until Saturday night to locate the missing securities; if he failed, then the colonel proposed placing the affair in the hands of the authorities.
 
Kent's firm mouth settled into dogged lines at the thought; such a procedure meant besmirching²⁴ Jimmie Turnbull's name; let the public get the slightest inkling that the bank cashier was suspected of forgery²⁵ and there would be the devil to pay. Kent was determined²⁶ to protect the honor of his dead friend, and to aid Helen McIntyre in her investigation²⁷ of his sudden death.
 
Jimmie Turnbull had been the soul of honor; that he had ever stooped to forgery was unbelievable. There was some explanation favorable to him—there must be. Kent's clenched²⁸ fist struck the arm of his, chair a vigorous blow and he leapt to his feet. Wasting no further time on speculation²⁹, he commenced a systematic³⁰ search of the apartment, replacing each chair and table as well as the rugs which had been over-turned in his recent tussle³¹, after which he tried the drawers of Jimmie's desk. They were unlocked. A careful search brought nothing to light but receipted bills, some loose change, old dinner cards, theater programs, tea invitations, and several packages of cigarettes.
 
Turning from the desk Kent walked over to the table which he knew was Philip Rochester's property; he recalled having once seen Jimmie place some papers there by mistake; having done so once, the mistake might have occurred again. Taking out his partner's bunch of keys, he soon found one that fitted and opened the drawers. He had half completed his task, without finding any clew to the missing securities, when he was interrupted by the sound of the opening of the front door, and had but time to slam the drawers shut and pocket the keys when the night clerk of the hotel stepped inside the apartment and, closely followed by a sandy-haired man, walked into the living room. He halted abruptly³² at sight of Kent.
 
“Good evening, Mr. Kent,” he exclaimed, and took in at a glance the orderly arrangement of the room. “Pardon my unceremonious entrance, but I had no idea you were here, sir; we received a telephone message that a burglar had broken in here.”
 
“You did!” Kent stared at him. Was he right, after all, in his conjecture³³; had the man been Philip Rochester? It would seem so, for who else, after taking refuge elsewhere, would have telephoned a warning of burglars to the hotel office? “Have you any idea who sent the message, Mr. Stuart?”
 
“I have not; it was an out-side call—” Stuart turned to his companion. “Sorry I brought you here on an idiotic³⁴ chase, Mr. Ferguson.”
 
“That's all right,” responded the detective good naturedly. “Would you like me to look through the apartment just to see if any one really is concealed on the premises³⁵, Mr. Kent?” he asked, and added quickly, seeing Kent hesitate, “I am from the central office; Mr. Stuart can vouch³⁶ for me.”
 
Kent's hesitation³⁷ vanished. “I'd be obliged if you would, Ferguson.” As he spoke³⁸ he led the way to Rochester's bedroom. “Come with us, Stuart,” as the clerk loitered behind.
 
“Guess not, sir; I'm needed down at the desk, we are short-handed to-night. Let me know how the hunt turns out,” and he stepped into the vestibule. “Good night.”
 
“Good night,” called Kent, and he accompanied Ferguson as far as the bathroom door, then returned to his inspection of Rochester's table. He had just completed his task when the detective rejoined him.
 
“No trace of any one,” the latter announced. “Some one put up a joke on Stuart, I imagine. Find what you wished, sir?”
 
Kent was distinctly annoyed by the question. “Yes,” he replied shortly.
 
Ferguson ignored his curt³⁹ tone. “Will you spare me a few minutes of your time, Mr. Kent?” he asked persuasively⁴⁰. “I won't detain you long.”
 
“Certainly.” Kent moved over to the chair in the window which he had occupied before and

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