brought the letter to the house, and I carried it to his desk to await his coming home. It the same name—Perth. Where is it?"

"You mean in what part of Australia, miss?"

"Yes, yes."

"It is in West Australia, and beyond it lie the barren and death lands of the great island. But what is the name?"

"Merle Macray," spoke Nora, in a whisper. "What a strange name it is, and don't you see that the handwriting is that of one of my sex? And the line above the address—just look at it in the light of this murderous deed. 'Don't let him see sixty-four!' That means that the command to kill Custer Kipp comes from that far part of the globe. It makes it all the more terrible."

Old Broadbrim took the paper and put it away.

"Not a word about this, please," he said to the girl.

"I am your secret keeper," she answered. "This matter is in your hands. When Foster comes home you can tell him about the torn letter if you wish, but I will not without your authority. The slayer of my benefactor must be found."

"He shall be."

"Even if the trail leads across the sea?"

"Yes, even if it leads around the world and into the heart of the wild Australian bush."

In after days Old Broadbrim, the tracker, was to recall his words with many a thrill.

CHAPTER III.

THE CLEW AND THE TALISMAN.

The death of Custer Kipp, the nabob, startled the whole city.

For some time New York had been in the midst of a carnival of crime, but this murder capped the climax.

No one thought of the other case, that got into the newspapers at the same time.

The death of Jason Marrow in his little den near the mouth of the alley did not take up half the space, and the reporters did not care to discuss it.

But the life of the millionaire was published; his past was ventilated so far as the reporters knew it, and they made out that he was one of the pillars of the metropolis, and there were loud calls for swift and certain vengeance.

Old Broadbrim was not to be found.

The inspector probably knew what had become of him, for he put Hargraves and Irwin on the case, and intimated that for once the Quaker detective would not stand between the pair, nor wrest from them the laurels to be gained in the Fifth Avenue mystery.

Custer Kipp did not go to the morgue, but Jason Marrow did.

The surgeons went at him in the most approved style, and decided, after more cutting than was necessary, that the man had died from strangulation.

The forenoon of the day after the discovery of the murder on the avenue, Old Broadbrim went back to Clippers' house.

The wiry little man received him with a good deal of excitement, and immediately took a package of papers from his bosom.

"I found them—the papers which I knew Jason had hid somewhere in the house," he exclaimed. "It took a long hunt, and I ransacked the whole place, but here they are."

Old Broadbrim took a seat at the table and began to open the jumbled papers.

"Where did Jason come from, Clippers?" he asked while he worked.

"I don't know. He would never tell me much about his past, but he had traveled some. He had been around the world, and at one time lived in Australia."

Just then something fell out of the package, and Old Broadbrim picked it up.

It was the counterpart of the photograph Custer Kipp had shown him in the library—the face of his deadly foe.

How had it come into Jason Marrow's possession?

Where did the occupant of the alley den get hold of it, and what did he know of the man it represented?

Clippers stood over his friend, the detective, and folded his arms while Old Broadbrim read the written papers found in the little house.

"It's strange, very strange," muttered the detective. "These may give me a clew to the other mystery."

"Those documents, eh?"

"The documents and the photograph."

"It's an old affair, the picture, I mean."

"Yes, taken years ago, but the man may wear the same features to some extent, and by this picture I may know him."

"Who do you think he is, Mr. Broadbrim?"

Old Broadbrim looked up into the face of Clippers.

"Perhaps the man who killed Jason Marrow," he said.

"Then, you are going to take the trail and beat Hargraves and Irwin to the end of it?"

"I am on another trail," quietly spoke the detective. "I am not going to bother the boys unless my trail crosses theirs—then I will play out my hand boldly."

After reading over the papers left behind by Jason Marrow, Old Broadbrim arose and thrust them into an inner pocket.

His face was as serene as ever, and nothing told that he had found what might prove a clew.

From Clippers' house he went direct to the offices of the Cunard Line.

It was the day for the sailing of one of that line's boats for Liverpool, and the detective was soon looking over the list of passengers.

Suddenly his eye stopped at a name and rested there.

It was a name he had just seen in the papers he had read in Clippers' house.

"Too late!" said the detective, as he turned away. "A few hours too late. The murderer is gone. Ere this he is fairly at sea on the deck of the Campania and I—I am in New York!"

Old Broadbrim quitted the office and got once more into the sunlight.

Taking a cab, he hastened to the offices of the White Star Line, and entered coolly but anxious.

He inquired at the proper desk when the next steamer of the line sailed for Liverpool.

"The Oceanic will leave her dock this afternoon."

The face of the detective seemed to flush with rising joy.

On the instant he engaged a cabin and walked out.

"We will see how the chase ends," said he, in undertones. "It may prove a long one, but, thanks to Jason Marrow's story, I may not be altogether on the wrong trail."

An hour later he stood once more beneath the roof of the murdered millionaire.

This time he was met by Foster Kipp, the dead man's son, a young man of twenty-five, with an open countenance, but eager and determined.

"I heard of this terrible affair in Albany, whither I went on some business for father. It came sooner than he expected."

"He expected it, then?"

"Yes; once he confided to me that he had an enemy, and said he was 'blacklisted.' I never pressed him for particulars, for he was reticent, but I firmly believe that the blow which fell last night was the one he dreaded."

"It was," said the detective. "Your father was killed by a hand in whose shadow he must have been for at least six months."

"Yes; nearly that long ago I found him in a faint on the carpet of the library, for he had received a warning of some kind and I failed to get the secret from him. It must be the old enemy—the one he made in Europe."

"He traveled through the Continent, then?"

"I believe he made a tour of the world. I recall some of his descriptions of places which are very far apart. But the most terrible thing connected with this is that he should be killed in his own house, deliberately strangled, while Nora was quietly reading in her boudoir upstairs."

"It makes it the more mysterious. The murderer entered by the front door and made his exit that way. He knew the mansion; he knew that your father was at home and unprotected."

"It must have been thus. Had I been at home the blow would not have fallen. He was killed on the eve of his sixty-fourth birthday. Why didn't the monster permit him to round out the year?"

"Perhaps that was in the scheme."

"Heavens! I never thought of that!" cried Foster Kipp. "It must have been a part of the diabolical game—to kill him before he became sixty-four. I remember last year he received a letter which threw him into a white rage, and tearing it up in this room he declared that he would pass