MY unusual success in gaining all I had set out to obtain excited my own admiration. I walked down the street from Barstow's office mentally patting myself upon the back; and then I got an idea which seemed to me to be particularly good.

Barring his peculiar actions in bringing Dean and me down-town, alleging that he had to call upon a client, and then going directly home, he had apparently acted in good faith; but despite all that, I couldn't help feeling that he was holding out on me; that he knew more than he wanted to say.

Then, too, Wasson had said that he was not as straight, as people thought. Now it appeared to me that of the two men Wasson had talked more frankly, and surely his anger when he thought I had duped him was entirely genuine. Of course, Barstow's training in his profession would tend to make him close-mouthed, and I appreciated that fact; but despite all that I had what Dual later denominated a subconscious feeling that there was something behind his veil of suavity and apparent complaisance, which he did not intend me to ever find out.

In other words, the man didn't inspire me with a sense of either sincerity or trustworthiness. Perhaps, though, it was Dual's reading of his handwriting which impressed me so strongly; for more and more I was coming to believe in Dual's personality and the peculiar statements which he made.

All this resulted in my determining to make a visit to the court-house for the purpose of looking up, if possible, anything of the judge's various transactions which might be on record there.

Personally I knew that from time to time various estates had been put into his hands for administration and adjustment; so in a way I knew what to look for, and acting upon the impulse, I took up my chase for facts along this new line.

A newspaperman learns to know a lot of people, and I was reasonably well acquainted around the city's legal center. So I had no difficulty in gaining access to the papers and records which I wished to examine, and plunged immediately into the task.

But there I ran up against a snag. It was easy enough to read the records, and to compile a list of the various estates in which Judge Barstow was taking or had taken an active part; but to an untrained legal mind it was next to impossible to trace the various windings of the several cases themselves.

One thing which struck me as peculiar, however, was the numerous instances where tracts of land, embodied in various estates, had been from time to time transferred by the administrator for sums patently below their actual value even at the time when the transfers were made, and later transferred again to a third party at a markedly advanced price.

This alone looked peculiar to me, novice that I was, and I wondered to myself if the several estates had profited by the advance price or not. Not only was this so, but in every instance the purchase and resale of the various parcels of land had been made in localities where its advance in value was practically a sure thing.

This set me off on a new trail. I began looking at the county records of real-estate transfers, using my memos of the tracts I had made as a clue.

In several instances I found here that the tracts after their advance sale had been assigned to the Commercial Land Company, and again sold by them at an advance of thousands of dollars. In other cases they were still the owner of choice locations in their own name; going back, I found that in these cases the land in question was all from estates which had been fully settled, and closed, so that in these instances the company's right of ownership was perfectly clear.

I shut up the books and bethought me of lunch. It was up to me to hurry, for my investigations had taken up a great deal of time, and it was nearly four o'clock. I suddenly developed a rush.

I went to a small café, and, perching upon a counter-stool, gave an imitation of the Irishman's household companion, the goat, by bolting an entire meat pie, pouring a cup of coffee over it, flinging a quarter to the cashier, and butting an incoming customer out of my way as I went out of the door. I had used up ten minutes of my time, and it was four-ten when I stood on the corner waiting for a car.

I had made up my mind to get up to the Fourth National Bank and see if Billy Baird was still working on the books. Baird was the orphan son of a former real-estate broker, who had died about two years before, and I knew him pretty well. In fact, Connie Baird was his sister, and had for some time shown a gracious interest in the newspaper world as typified by myself.

I had hopes, and Connie had intimated that I might go right on hoping, so I felt that I knew Billy pretty well. What made me want to see him particularly now was the fact that among the mass of estate matters I had been running over there was mention of the Baird name. I knew that it would be safest to approach Billy in the matter than any one else I had on the list.

I found him under a drop electric, for the day had turned cloudy, and back in the bank it was almost dusk, owing to the black clouds which were piling up in the west. He looked up and greeted me with a grin. "Hallo, Brother Glace," said he. "What brings you down this way? There's no shortage in our cash to-day."

"I just wanted to ask you what you did with your property which is now embraced in the Hyland Addition," I replied.

"I didn't do anything," said Billy. "I was a minor up to last year, you know. But if you want to know, it was sold."

"Then you haven't got it now?"

"No," said Billy. "I only wish I had. If I had I'd hold on to it, you bet."

"How'd you come to sell?" I inquired, as I lighted up.

"Well," said Billy, leaning back in his chair, "of course you know when dad died both Con and myself were 'infants,' as they call us at law. Judge Barstow administered the estate. Among other things dad left was this tract of ground which he'd got in on a trade. Barstow found a buyer for it and advised us to sell, and we did. That's about all there is to it, only I wish we'd held it. We wouldn't have to work in a bank now if we had."

"Who bought it?" I asked.

"A fellow named Jonathan Dobs Dohn. I never heard of him before or after, but he paid up all according to contract. Why?"

"Did you know that he afterward assigned the property to the Commercial Land Company, which assigned it to the Hyland Addition Company?" I asked.

Billy sat up as though thrown by a spring. "The deuce he did! Glace, is that straight?"

"Look up the county records. Who are the Hyland Addition Company, Billy, do you know?"

"Barstow's their attorney, and he owns a big block of their stock. Oh, Lord! Do you suppose he bunked us out of that land?"

"What did you get for it?" I continued.

"One hundred an acre; one-fifth of what they're getting a lot. Say, is there anything we can do about it, Glace?"

"You'd have to prove intent to defraud," I answered. "Otherwise he'd claim to have acted upon his own judgment in good faith. After you had sold it, it was anybody's to buy. It looks shady, but you can't prove anything, I guess."

"Oh, but I'm sick," said Billy, half grinning. "Say, Glace, what are you going to do with all this?"

"Nothing, right now, Billy," I said. "I may use it, however, if I can flush the particular bird I think I'm after right now."

"I hope it's Barstow, the smug-faced old hypocrite," growled Billy. "Gee, if Con and me could have that ground now, she could keep a girl and I'd get a dress suit."

"How is Connie?" I demanded, with sudden heat as I thought of how the girl had been wronged.

"Sore on a bum reporter who don't even give her a call on the wire," said Billy. "Now, you get out of here and let me finish up, or she won't even have a brother left around the house."

I grinned and turned away.

"Say, Glace," said Billy, "why don't you marry the girl, and take Billy to live with you?"

I turned back and looked full into his grinning face. "Don't tell it to Connie, Billy, for I don't want her to know it till it's over, but that's just what I'm going to do, my dear little brother mine." Then I left before he threw the ink-well; for if there is anything Billy hates it is to be treated like a kid.

I went out and discovered that it had begun to rain, so I turned up the collar of my coat, and lit another cigarette. Then I suddenly kicked myself for a fool and looked at the clock. It was a quarter to five. I didn't hesitate, but held up a finger to a passing taxi, and told the driver to get me to the office of the Secretary of State if he had to smash all the speed ordinances in town. I had to get there by five, and time was short.

We started with a rush, and I wondered where my wits were that I hadn't waked up before. Billy's remarks had told me that Barstow had an interest in the Hyland Addition Company's affairs, and they had bought the Hyland tract from the Commercial Land Company, after Dohn had purchased it from the Baird estate, which sold it on Barstow's advice.

I must know who the Commercial Land Company was; and the Secretary's office would close at five o'clock. Well, I had to make it.

I felt that I must see the records to-night if I had to break in with an ax, and I made it, with a scant five minutes to spare.

I left my cab and rushed into the building and up the stairs, hurried to the office, and asked to inspect the records of incorporations, greatly to the annoyance of a clerk who glanced meaningly at the clock.

However, he got me the right papers, and I forgot all about him as I scanned their pages in my eagerness. The Commercial Land Company, I found, was an ordinary incorporation whose charter covered the general points of a land-holding and selling concern. This I speedily passed by.

What I wanted to know was who the incorporators were, and I cast my eye quickly over the page for what I sought. The company had been incorporated for one thousand dollars in shares of the par value, of one dollar each. Of these, John Brown, president, held one; Kitty Hicks, one; John D. Dohn, vice-president, one; Arthur Small, one; and the other nine hundred and ninety-six were held by the secretary and treasurer, Madeline More, the dead woman in the Jason Street hotel, the ex-employee of Judge Barstow, to whom he still took papers to be written up!

I almost gasped as I handed back the papers and hurried out past the scowling attendant, who was waiting to lock up.

Madeline More had practically been the Commercial Land Company herself. Undoubtedly the four other names had been dummy incorporators, holding each a share of stock which they doubtless assigned as soon as the incorporation was made.

Madeline More! I had hold of something. I had picked up another loose end of the snarl. I knew if I had any brains I could see where it led, but I was fagged. Madeline More was the Commercial Land Company, and she was dead.

Yet if she had been the company, where were the books which as secretary she should have possessed; there should be stock-books at least. Anyway, they were not in her room. We had found nothing of the sort in our search. Yet wait; there had been some small books among the mass of papers which the coroner's men had taken from the room. Perhaps there might be some sort of mention in some of them. At least I could see.

In almost a superstitious mood, I decided to try. Fate had been kind to me all day. I hurried down and got into my cab, thinking ruefully of the hole I was making in my money, and set out for the coroner's place.

All the way I kept thinking and thinking. Madeline More had been the Commercial Land Company; they had sold the Hyland Tract to the Hyland Company. Madeline More had been the employee of Barstow. Barstow was attorney for the Hyland Company. There was a connection, I felt sure of it, only I didn't have a speck of legal proof. Would I find it in the papers from the dead girl's room?

At the coroner's I found a clerk still in charge, and told him I wanted to see the papers brought in from the Jason Street case. At first he demurred, but after some little argument, I won my case. He dumped the lot before me, and went back to some papers which he was filing away.

I fell upon my spoil like a dog on a bone, but fate seemed to have deserted me at the last. I began to despair. One by one I ran through the mass of books, papers, notes, and documents to the bottom of the pile, until there remained but one little, soft, leather-bound book. Rather hopelessly I picked it up and glanced at the gilt lettering "Diary" on its back. I opened it and snorted in disgust.

It was filled with shorthand notations, interspersed with some figures and dates, and was as Greek to me. I was about to throw it down, when something else caught my eye. It was a letter-head of the Commercial Land Company, thrust between the book's leaves, and I paused and looked at the clerk. He was absorbed with his work.

I slipped the book into my pocket, picked up the rest of the pile before me, and carried them over to him. Then, with a final good night, and feeling pretty much like a thief, I got out of that room. I knew I ought not to have done it, but I was determined to have that book read to me by some one who understood shorthand. After that I'd try and slip it back some way.

I had a cup of coffee, and then hurried to the Record office, where I spent some considerable time writing up my story for the next day's issue, so as to turn it in before it was time to go to Dual. When I was done I carried my stuff to Smithson's desk.

Smithson looked up and greeted me with a bit of characteristic sarcasm. "Hallo!" he growled. "You working here?"

I replied that I was.

"Then why in thunder don't you come round once in a while?" he sneered.

I was tired, and his manner was offensive in the extreme, yet I tried to keep cool. "Didn't you get my note? I was out on this case," I said.

"Sure, I got your note," snarled Smithson. "Who told you to get out on the case? Since when have you been making your own assignments, I'd like to know? I sent you out yesterday because there wasn't anybody else to go. That didn't give you a mortgage on the story, did it, you cub?"

I blew up.

A seasoned writer doesn't like to be called a cub, and, as I have said, I was tired with two days' work and little sleep.

"Yes, you sent me out," I said, "and I turned in a story which even you said was good. I got onto a lot of new stuff about the case which needed chasing down. Just now I'm on the trail of one of the biggest things your little old rag ever stuck up in ink.

"That's why I went out this morning; why I worked all this day and most of last night. I'm going out again after a bit, and I'll come back when I darned please, and if I don't get you the biggest story you've had in a year, you can can me when I get back." I paused to get my breath.

And Smithson grinned. "I can can you now," he said.

I was still mad. "Go ahead and do it, then," I cried, "and I'll get the story for any one who wants to buy. I've got a big thing and I'm going to see it through. Why, right now I've got enough on a certain party to send him to jail, and I don't care what you do. I'm sick of your bullying, anyhow."

"Nice, respectful attitude you've got toward the C.E., ain't it?" said Smithson.

"Well, it goes as it stands," I asserted. I felt like a tired and cross little boy.

"All right," said the Record's city editor, turning back to his desk. "I guess you really mean what you say, so you're on. Go as far as you like, only if you don't make good on that bluff, Glace, it'll be the blue envelope for yours."

"I'll make good. You'll need about one page spreads for to-morrow night's story," I boasted, and set out to see Semi Dual.