“There are a queer lot of people in this tenement,” said Mr. Jackson, during the course of the talking.  “All of ’em have some story hidden away, I guess.  Especially one man.”

“Who is he?”

“Nobody knows,” replied Mr. Jackson.  “He came here one night, and seemed quite excited.  Let’s see, it was Thursday night, I remember now.  He acted as though he was afraid some one was after him.”

“Thursday night,” thought Larry.  “That was the night the man got away from the deserted tenement.”

“My wife and I were sitting here,” continued Mr. Jackson, “when all at once a knock sounded on the door.  I opened it, and there was this man.  He asked if I had any rooms to rent.  I hadn’t, but I told him I had a spare bed, for I saw he was respectable.  He seemed glad to get it, and paid me well, though I didn’t want to take the money.  But he seemed to have plenty.”

“What was queer about him?” asked Larry, beginning to take an unusual interest in what his friend was saying.

“Well, the excitement he seemed to be in, for one thing.  And another, he had just been shaved.  I could see the talcum powder on his cheeks.  I thought it strange that a man who had time to shave or get shaved should be in such a hurry.  But it wasn’t any of my affair, so I said nothing.”

“What became of him?” Larry was quite eager now.  He seemed to be on the verge of discovering something; if not of the Potter mystery then of the other, that cropped up every now and again—­that of the man he had helped save from the wreck.

“He went away the next morning,” Mr. Jackson resumed.  “I didn’t see him again until the next night.  Then he told me he had a room in this tenement.”

“Where?” inquired the young reporter.

“On the floor below—­a front room, at the end of the corridor.  But are you going to call on him?” and Mr. Jackson looked somewhat surprised at Larry’s eagerness.

“Maybe I could get a story out of him,” replied the reporter non-commitally.  “Have to be always on the lookout, you know.”

“Well, I guess you’ll not get much out of this man,” said Mr. Jackson.  “He hardly speaks to me, though he doesn’t seem cross or ugly.  Only there’s some mystery about him.  I’m sure of that.”

“If he’s Mah Retto I’m positive there is,” thought Larry.  “And it looks as if it might be that fellow.”

Not wishing to seem too keen on the scent of the queer man, the newspaper youth changed the subject.  In a little while he said he had better be going home, as he had not told his mother he would be out late.  He promised to ask Mrs. Dexter to call on Mrs. Jackson, and, with many good wishes from his friends, he left.

“Now for a try at the room on the next floor,” said Larry in a whisper, as he found himself in the corridor.  “It’s only a slim chance, but a reporter has to take all that come his way.”

He found the room Mr. Jackson had described, and knocked on the door.  There was a sound from within, as though some one had arisen from a chair.  Then a voice asked: