ISAAC AT BAY

Arnold had a swift premonition of what had happened.  He led Ruth to a chair and stood by her side.  Ruth gazed around the room in bewilderment.  The curtained screen which divided it had been torn down, and the door of the inner apartment, which Isaac kept so zealously locked, stood open.  Not only that, but the figure of a second man was dimly seen moving about inside, and, from the light shining out, it was obviously in some way illuminated.

“I don’t understand who you are or what you are doing here,” Ruth declared, trembling in every limb.

“My name is Inspector Grant,” the man replied.  “My business is with Isaac Lalonde, who I understand is your uncle.”

“What do you want with him?” she asked.

The inspector made no direct reply.

“There are a few questions,” he said, “which it is my duty to put to you.”

“Questions?” she repeated.

“Do you know where your uncle is?”

Ruth shook her head.

“I left him here this morning,” she replied.  “He has not been out for several days.  I expected to find him here when I returned.”

“We have been here since four o’clock,” the man said.  “There was no one here when we arrived, nor has any one been since.  Your uncle has no regular hours, I suppose?”

“He is very uncertain,” Ruth answered.  “He does newspaper reporting, and he sometimes has to work late.”

“Can you tell me what newspaper he is engaged upon?”

“The Signal, for one,” Ruth replied.

Inspector Grant was silent for a moment.

“The Signal newspaper offices were seized by the police some days ago,” he remarked.  “Do you know of any other journal on which your uncle worked?”

She shook her head.

“He tells me very little of his affairs,” she faltered.

The inspector pointed backwards into the further corner of the apartment.

“Do you often go into his room there?” he asked.

“I have not been for months,” Ruth assured him.  “My uncle keeps it locked up.  He told me that there had been some trouble at the office and he was printing something there.”

The inspector rose slowly to his feet.  On the table by his side was a pile of articles covered over with a tablecloth.  Very deliberately he removed the latter and looked keenly at Ruth.  She shrank back with a little scream.  There were half a dozen murderous-looking pistols there, a Mannerlicher rifle, and a quantity of ammunition.

“What does your uncle need with these?” the inspector asked dryly.

“How can I tell?” Ruth replied.  “I have never seen one of them before.  I never knew that they were in the place.”

“Nor I,” Arnold echoed.  “I have been a constant visitor here, too, and I have never seen firearms of any sort before.”

The inspector turned towards him.

“Are you a friend of Isaac Lalonde?” he asked.