Brencherly shook his head.  “If you do that they’ll tumble to you, Mr. Gard.  It’s an even chance Mr. Mahr would have any messages reported.  He could, you know; he’s a pretty important stockholder in the transmission companies.  You’d better have a watchman or an alarm attachment on the safe, if you can.”

Gard sat silent.  He was reasoning out the motive of Mahr’s move.  Did Mrs. Marteen still retain evidence against him which he was anxious to obtain during her absence?  It seemed the obvious conclusion, and yet there was the possibility that Mahr contemplated vengeance, that in the safe he hoped to obtain evidence against Mrs. Marteen herself that would put her into his hands.  On the whole, that seemed the most likely explanation, and one that offered such possibilities that he ground his teeth.  He was roused from his reverie by Brencherly’s hesitating voice.

“I think, Mr. Gard, I’d better go at once.  I want to get a trailer after Balling, and if I’m a good guesser, we haven’t any time to lose.”

“You’re right; go on.  I was thinking what precautions had best be taken at Mrs. Marteen’s home.  I’ll plan that—­you do the rest.  Good-by.”

Brencherly sidled to the door, bowed and disappeared.

The telephone bell on the table rang sharply.  Gard took down the receiver absently, but the voice that trembled over the wire startled him like an electric shock.  It was Dorothy’s, but changed almost beyond recognition, a frightened, uncertain little treble.

“Is this Mr. Gard?” A sigh of relief greeted his affirmative.  “Please, please, Mr. Gard, can I see you right away?”

“Where are you, Dorothy?  Of course; I’m at your service always.  What is it?” he asked, conscious that his own voice betrayed his agitation.

“I’m downstairs, in the building.  You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind!  Come up at once—­or I’ll send down for you.”

“No—­I’m coming now; thank you so much.”

The receiver clicked, and Gard, anxious and puzzled, pressed the desk button for his man.

“Miss Marteen is coming.  Show her in here.”

A moment later Dorothy entered.  Her face was pale and her eyes seemed doubled in size.  She sat down in the chair he advanced for her, as if no longer able to stand erect, gave a little gasp and burst into tears.

“Dorothy, Dorothy!” begged Gard, distressed beyond measure.  “Come, come, little girl, what is the matter?  Tell me!”

She continued to sob, but reaching blindly for his hand, seemed to find encouragement and assurance in his firm clasp.  At last she steadied herself, wiped her eyes and faced him.

“This morning,” she began faintly, “a messenger brought this.”  From an inner pocket she took out a crumpled letter, and laid it on the table.  “I didn’t know what to do.  Read it—­read it!” she blazed.  “It’s too horrid—­too cowardly—­too wicked!”

He picked up the envelope.  It was directed to Dorothy in typewritten characters.  The paper was of the cheapest.  He withdrew the enclosure, closely covered with typewriting, glanced over the four pages and turned to the end.  Then he read through.