breweries—­which he had concealed in a corporation that did not bear his name were an inviting and unfailing target.  For years, though never seeking office, he had been a silent factor in politics, and he and Bassett, it was said, controlled their party.  Mrs. Thatcher had built an expensive house, but fearing that the money her husband generously supplied was tainted by the remote beer vats, she and her two daughters spent most of their time in Europe, giving, however, as their reason the ill-health of Thatcher’s son.  Thatcher’s income was large and he spent it in his own fashion.  He made long journeys to witness prize fights; he had the reputation of being a poor poker player, but “a good loser”; he kept a racing-stable that lost money, and he was a patron of baseball and owned stock in the local club.  He was “a good fellow” in a sense of the phrase that requires quotation marks.  Mrs. Sally Owen, whose opinion in all matters pertaining to her fellow citizens is not to be slighted, fearlessly asked Thatcher to dinner at her house.  She expressed her unfavorable opinion of his family for deserting him, and told him to his face that a man who knew as little about horses as he did should have a guardian.

“He’s in town somewhere,” said the city editor; “don’t come back and tell me you can’t find him.  Try the Country Club, where he was never known to go, and the University Club, where he doesn’t belong, and all the other unlikely places you can think of.  The other boys have thrown up their hands.”

Dan had several times been fortunate in like quests for men in hiding, and he had that confidence in his luck which is part of the good reporter’s endowment.  He called all the clubs and the Thatcher residence by telephone.  The clubs denied all knowledge of Edward G. Thatcher, and his residence answered not at all; whereupon Harwood took the trolley for the Thatcher mansion in the new quarter of Meridian Street beyond the peaceful shores of Fall Creek.  A humorist who described the passing show from the stern of a rubber-neck wagon for the instruction of tourists announced on every round that “This is Edward G. Thatcher’s residence; it contains twelve bath-rooms, and cost seventy-five thousand dollars four years ago.  The family have lived in it three months.  Does it pay to be rich?”

As Harwood entered the grounds the house loomed darkly before him.  Most of the houses in this quarter were closed for the summer, but Dan assumed that there must be some sort of caretaker on the premises and he began patiently punching the front-door bell.  Failing of any response, he next tried a side door and finally the extreme rear.  He had begun to feel discouraged when, as he approached the front entrance for a second assault, he saw a light flash beyond the dark blinds.  The door opened cautiously, and a voice gruffly bade him begone.

“I have a message for Mr. Thatcher; it’s very important—­”

“Mr. Thatcher not at home; nobody home,” growled a voice in broken English.  “You get right off dis place, quick!”