“Well, if he goes to New York I go too!” said the colonel grimly.

And he went, on the same train with Aaron Grafton, though unknown to the latter.

It was a skilful bit of shadowing the detective did on the journey to the metropolis, so skilful that, though the merchant plainly showed by his nervousness that he thought he might have been followed, he did not, seemingly, suspect the quiet man seated not far from him, reading a little green book.  The colonel had adopted a simple but effective disguise.

In New York, which was reached early in the morning, after a night journey, the colonel again took up the trail, keeping near his man.

“Follow that taxi,” the colonel ordered the driver of his machine as it rolled out of the Pennsylvania station, just a few lengths behind the one in which Grafton rode.

The following was well done, and, a little later the two machines drew up in front of the big office building in which Colonel Ashley had his headquarters.

“Whew!” whispered the follower of Izaak Walton, “I wonder if he came here to consult my agency?”

All doubts were dissolved a moment later when, keeping somewhat in the background, the detective heard the merchant ask the elevator starter on which floor were the offices of Colonel Ashley’s detective agency.

“He does want to see me!” excitedly thought the colonel.  “What in the world for?  This is getting interesting!  I’ve got to do a little fine work now.  He must never suspect, at least for a while, that I have been in Colchester.”

Next to the elevator in which Aaron Grafton rode up was another.

“Tom, you’re an express for the time being!” whispered the colonel to the operator.  “There’s a man headed for my offices, and I must get in ahead of him.  Here’s a dollar!”

“I get you, Colonel!  Shoot!”

And the car shot up with speed enough to cause the colonel to gasp, used as he was to rapid motion.

He had just time to slide into his quarters by a rear and private door, to make certain changes in his appearance and be calmly sitting at his desk smoking a cigar when his clerk brought in the card of Aaron Grafton.

“Tell him to come in,” said the colonel, more and more surprised at the turn affairs were taking.  “I’ll see this man myself,” he continued, speaking to the man into whose hands he had put the general direction of the agency.  “Say to Mr. Grafton,” he said, turning to the clerk, “that Colonel Ashley will see him in a moment.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE DIAMOND CROSS

“Colonel Ashley?” There was a formal, questioning note in the merchant’s voice.

“That is my name, yes, sir.  Er—­Mr. Grafton,” and, as though to refresh his memory, the colonel glanced at the card on his desk.

“You are a private detective?”