About thirty years of age, his tall, thin figure clad in stylish clothing, Ronald Mason was a clean-shaven individual, with hard features.

He had cold, gray eyes, and a haughty, overbearing appearance.

When the detectives came in, they saw him bending a queer, searching look at them, and he then asked in low tones:

"Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you to-day?"

Neither of the detectives were favorably impressed with his appearance.

They had seen the odd look he gave them, and set him down for a tricky and dangerous man to deal with.

Old King Brady took him in hand by saying:

"You are Mr. Mason, I believe?"

"That is my name, Mr. Brady."

"We have heard that your uncle has mysteriously disappeared."

"That's correct. We've reported the matter to the police. I presume you are here to get information about him, ain't you?"

"Yes. What do you know about the case?"

"Simply this: Last Monday he left this office at five o'clock and proceeded to the Union Club. At about eight o'clock, after his dinner, a telegram was brought in to him. He showed some agitation, put on his hat, took his umbrella and hastily departed. No one seems to know where he went. That was the last we've seen or heard of him since. We informed the police and nothing has yet come of it."

"Did he have any domestic or business trouble?"

"None that I'm aware of."

"Ever speak of suicide?"

Mason assumed a very mysterious air, bent near the detectives and replied:

"Yes! Several times. And I fear he has kept his threat at last."

The Bradys were startled at this unexpected reply.

CHAPTER V.

THE PICTURE ON THE WALL.

Ronald Mason was keenly watching the effect his words produced upon the detectives, and he noted their looks of astonishment.

When Old King Brady recovered from the shock, he demanded:

"Can you tell me why your uncle contemplated suicide?"

"Yes. He was afflicted with an incurable disease. He never told any one about it except me. He had the consumption."

"I see," said the old detective, nodding. "It made him despondent?"

"Yes. He sometimes had no desire to live, only to perish in the end of a lingering malady, which was bound to prove fatal, anyway."

"Didn't his daughter know anything about it?"

"Not a thing. He kept it a secret from her so she would not worry."

"Presuming he killed himself, who would benefit by his death?"

"His daughter and I. We are his only relatives."

"You are his nephew, I believe?"

"Well, yes. By adoption, but not by blood."

"How do you mean?"

"I was his dead sister's adopted child. Legally, I'm his nephew."

"Since he vanished, have you been conducting his business?"

"Oh, yes. I'm capable of doing it. In fact, even when he was here I've been in the habit of attending to most all of it. He recently hasn't done much more than sign checks."

"Since he vanished, have you been here every day?"

"Certainly I have."

"Haven't been out of town at all, eh?"

"I had no occasion to."

"No?" asked the detective, with a smile.

"No!" retorted Mason, sharply.

"Do you know Sim Johnson, your uncle's valet?"

"Of course I do."

"Are you in the habit of going on sprees with that colored man?"

A startled look flashed across Mason's face, an expression of deep fear shone for an instant in his cold eyes, and he sprang to his feet.

By an effort of will he subdued his alarm, a dark frown mantled his brow and he glared furiously at the detectives and demanded:

"Do you mean to insult me?"

A chuckle escaped the old detective and he replied, blandly:

"Insult you? By no means."

"Then what do you mean by asking such an impertinent question, sir?" haughtily demanded Mason.

"Only this," replied Old King Brady, calmly. "We were down at your uncle's place at Swamp Angel, in Georgia, the other night, and learned there that you and Sim Johnson were on a toot there together."

"It's an infernal lie!" yelled Mason, losing his temper.

Old King Brady smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"Perhaps," he assented. "But if it isn't, I'll tell you how you may know that we were aware of it. My partner and I are the two who called there to see you, and couldn't, as you were then supposed to be sleeping off your jag."

Mason had a queer expression upon his face.

He looked puzzled, angry and curious, and finally asked:

"How did you happen to go way down there to my uncle's place in Georgia, looking for me, I'd like to know?"

"Important business brought us to that neighborhood, Mr. Mason."

"May I inquire what it was?"

"You may, but we won't tell you."

"Insolent!" exclaimed the young man, bridling up again.

"Your question was worse!"

"Well, to bring this interview to a close, I deny your ugly insinuation, and declare that I was not out of New York since my uncle vanished. Now, if you have nothing to say except to cast aspersions upon my character, I will wish you good-morning, as I am busy and my time is valuable."

"That's a polite hint for us to go, I presume?"

"I'll be frank with you. It is."

"Very well, Mr. Mason. We'll trouble you no further—for the present."

And bowing low, the detectives walked out of the office.

A cab was awaiting them out in Broad street and they entered it, and were driven rapidly uptown on the west side.

"You've got him guessing," laughed Harry, as they sped along.

"He knows I've caught him in a lie," Old King Brady answered.

"Going to the broker's house now?"

"Yes. I wish to question his daughter and the valet."

"Did you notice anything peculiar about Mason?"

"His face, and voice, and actions seemed strangely familiar to me."

"That's what I mean, exactly."

"Haven't we met him before?"

"Well," said Harry, "if he were dressed like an undertaker, wore false side-whiskers and called himself Solomon Gloom, don't you think he would resemble the villain who shot me in Thirty-sixth street?"

"Thunder!" ejaculated Old King Brady, slapping his knee with his hand.

The keen boy's discernment startled him.

What Harry said was the truth.

Mason certainly bore a startling resemblance to the man who had shipped the box of human remains to Georgia.

Harry laughed, and asked:

"You notice the resemblance then, do you?"

"I do, indeed. It's startling."

"Do you think he's the same man?"

"The Lord knows. It's hard to say. But I suspect he is. If he and Mr. Gloom were the same person, what possible object could he have had in putting that man out of the way?"

"We may find out later on."

The cab brought them to the palatial residence the missing broker had occupied, and a ring at the bell brought a negro flunky to the door.

He stared at the detectives, and they stared at him.

Then he uttered a startled cry, and retreating into the hall, he made a movement as if he were going to close the door in their faces.

Harry was too quick for him.

The boy sprang in and caught him by the throat.

Despite the fact that the coon now wore a dress suit, the detectives recognized him as the driver of the undertaker's wagon, whom "Mr. Gloom" had addressed as "Sim."

A gurgling cry escaped the black man.

"Let me go!" he gasped.

"I've got you now, you villain!" cried Harry, grimly.

"Fo' de Lawd sakes, what yo' doin'?" groaned the darky.

"You are the undertaker's helper. We know you."

"No, I ain't, boss. No, I ain't!" protested the man in alarmed tones.

"Don't you lie to me! We know you, I tell you, and by Jove we are going to make you tell who that man was you murdered!"

The negro was terribly