in Natalie, and a personal dislike of the man himself.  He possessed no proof of the fellow’s perfidy, nor had he even determined in his own mind the means to be employed for learning the truth.  He had nothing to build upon but the statement of the girl, which was extremely vague in detail, and largely mere suspicion.  The more thoroughly he analyzed the situation the more complicated it became, and the less confident he felt regarding an early solution.  If Coolidge was engaged in some criminal scheme the man was certainly shrewd enough to carefully cover his trail.  It was no sudden temptation to which he had yielded, but a deeply laid plan, formed, perhaps, as long ago as his brother’s death, and now just coming to a head.  Even the books of the estate might have been so carefully manipulated as to leave no clue.  Besides West possessed no authority by which to examine the books, or even question the bankers in whose hands the funds were supposed to be.  The only immediate hope of striking a trail apparently lay in his discovery of the strange woman who was impersonating Natalie Coolidge, and learning her object in carrying on such a masquerade.  Of course, even that might lead nowhere in particular, as she might be merely amusing herself, and have no connection with Percival whatever; yet such an investigation offered a chance not to be neglected.

His glance took in the surroundings, but with no conception that they would have any direct bearing upon the mystery he was endeavouring to solve.  It was a block of irregular houses, a tenement on the corner, a dirty looking brick, the other houses of wood, mostly two stories in height, rather disreputable in appearance, but the one before which the machine waited, was a frame cottage, well back from the street, and rather respectable in appearance, although it must have been some years since last painted.  Its original white was dingy, and the tightly closed blinds gave an appearance of desertion.  The door was shut.  The chimney indicated no sign of smoke, the front yard gave every evidence of long neglect.

An urchin, chasing a ball, plunged recklessly beneath the auto, emerging with the sphere in his grimy fist.  West stopped him with a question.

“Who lives in there?”

“I do’ know.”

“You don’t know?  Live ’round here, don’t you?”

“Sure; but these folks just come in.  They ain’t got no kids.  G’wn; what yer asking me fer?  Here ye are, Micky!”

“Wait a minute.  Here’s a dime for you.  You say these people just moved in?”

“Yep.”

“When?”

“Couple days maybe.  Shucks, mister, I do’ know.  Hooligans moved out ’bout a week ago, an’ then, a while after that, these guys moved in.  I ain’t seen nobody round, but a sorter middlin’ ol’ woman.  Maybe Micky knows who they be—­he lives in that next house.  Hey, Micky; here’s a guy wants to ask you som’thin’!”