Gard had not been mistaken when he surmised that Brencherly must inevitably connect the murder with the sequence of events.  But the conclusion reached with relentless finality by that astute young man was far from being what Gard had feared.  To the detective’s mind the answer was plain—­his employer was guilty.

The motive obviously concerned Mrs. Marteen.  It was evident, from Mahr’s efforts to gain access to that lady’s safe, that she possessed something of which Mahr stood in fear or desired to possess.  It was possible that she had obtained proof against Mahr.  Perhaps she opposed young Teddy’s attentions to her daughter.  Perhaps Mahr was responsible for the disappearance.  At any rate, Gard had been the last person to see Mahr as far as anyone knew; and a bitter feud existed, which no one guessed.  Brencherly did not place great reliance in the woman theory.  Doubtless one had called, but she had probably left.  That she had gone out unseen was no astonishing matter.  A servant delinquent in his hall duty was by no means a novelty even in the best regulated mansions.  The robbery in that case could have been only a blind for an act of anger or revenge.  The search for papers might have a deeper significance.

He intended to “stand by the boss,” Brencherly told himself.  Gard was a great man and a decent sort; Mahr was an unworthy specimen.  Brencherly decided that at all Costs Marcus Gard must be protected.  He cursed the promise that kept him at his post.  He longed to get into personal touch with every tangible piece of evidence, every clew, noted and unnoted.  His men were on the spot and reporting to him; but that could not make up for personal investigation.  In view of these new developments, what would be Mrs. Marteen’s next move?  Some secret bond connected the three—­Mahr, Gard and Mrs. Marteen.

Brencherly, alone in Gard’s library, rose and paced the room, glancing at the desk clock every time his line of march took him past the table.  His employer was coming home fast as steam could bring him.  He longed for his arrival and the council of war that must ensue; longed to be relieved of the tedium of room-tied waiting.  He no longer looked for any communication from Mrs. Marteen.  She had her reasons for concealment, no doubt, and he felt assured that neither hospital nor morgue would yield her up.  It was with genuine delight that he at last heard the familiar voice on the telephone, though it was but a hurried inquiry for news.

Half an hour later, haggard and worn beyond belief, Gard hurried into the library and held out his hand.

The young man looked at his face in astonishment as Gard threw himself into the chair and turned toward him.

“You’ll pardon me,” he faltered.  “There’s nothing that can’t wait, and you need rest, sir.”

“Not till I can get it without nightmares,” he snapped.  “Now give me this Mahr affair—­all of it.  I’ve seen the papers, of course, but I imagine you have the inside; then I want to hear what you think.”