CHAPTER V: ON THE TRACK OF A CRIME.
In the city room of the _Star_, Farriss, the city editor, sat back in his swivel chair smoking a farewell pipe preparatory to going home.
The final edition had been put to bed, the wires were quiet, and as he sat there Farriss was thinking of plunging "muskies" in Maine streams.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a clatter of footsteps, and, slapping his feet to the floor, he turned to confront Willis and Miss Donovan.
"Great God!" he started, at their appearance at so late an hour.
Miss Donovan smiled at him.

"No; great luck!" "Better than that, Mr.Farriss," echoed Willis.

"We've got something; and we dug all week to get it." "But it cost us real money--enough to make the business office moan, I expect, too," Miss Donovan added.
"Well, for Pete's sake, shoot!" demanded Farriss.

"Cavendish, I suppose ?" The two nodded.

Their eyes were alight with enthusiasm.
"In the first place," said the girl, with grave emphasis, "Frederick Cavendish did not die intestate as supposed.