myself connecting him with some previous remembrance in which I seemed to see his tall form and strong features under the stress of some great excitement.  But there my memory stopped, till suddenly as I was entering the subway, it all came back to me.  I had met him the day I went with the boys to investigate the case in Hicks Street.  He was coming down the staircase of the rear tenement then, very much as I had just seen him coming down the one in front.  Only the Dunn of to-day seemed to have all his wits about him, while the huge fellow who brushed so rudely by me on that occasion had the peculiar look of a man struggling with horror or some other grave agitation.  This was not surprising, of course, under the circumstances.  I had met more than one man and woman in those halls who had worn the same look; but none of them had put up a sign on his door that he had left for New York and would not be back till 6:30, and then changed his mind so suddenly that he was back in the tenement at three, sharing the curiosity and the terrors of its horrified inmates.

“But the discovery, while possibly suggestive, was not of so pressing a nature as to demand instant action; and more immediate duties coming up, I let the matter slip from my mind, to be brought up again the next day, you may well believe, when all the circumstances of the death at the Clermont came to light and I found myself confronted by a problem very nearly the counterpart of the one then occupying me.

“But I did not see any real connection between the two cases, until, in my hunt for Mr. Brotherson, I came upon the following facts:  that he was not always the gentleman he appeared:  that the apartment in which he was supposed to live was not his own but a friend’s; and that he was only there by spells.  When he was there, he dressed like a prince and it was while so clothed he ate his meals in the cafe of the Hotel Clermont.

“But there were times when he had been seen to leave this apartment in a very different garb, and while there was no one to insinuate that he was slack in paying his debts or was given to dissipation or any overt vice, it was generally conceded by such as casually knew him, that there was a mysterious side to his life which no one understood.  His friend—­a seemingly candid and open-minded gentleman—­explained these contradictions by saying that Mr. Brotherson was a humanitarian and spent much of his time in the slums.  That while so engaged he naturally dressed to suit the occasion, and if he was to be criticised at all, it was for his zeal which often led him to extremes and kept him to his task for days, during which time none of his up-town friends saw him.  Then this enthusiastic gentleman called him the great intellectual light of the day, and—­well, if ever I want a character I shall take pains to insinuate myself into the good graces of this Mr. Conway.

“Of Brotherson himself I saw nothing.  He had come to Mr. Conway’s apartment the night before—­the night of Miss Challoner’s death, you understand but had remained only long enough to change his clothes.  Where he went afterwards is unknown to Mr. Conway, nor can he tell us when to look for his return.  When he does show up, my message will be given him, etc., etc.  I have no fault to find with Mr. Conway.