It was through her great,
unselfish love for him that she had intentionally refrained from giving
him any clue that would enable him to find his way into the danger zone
which she reserved for herself alone. Yes, he understood that--but it
only made what he feared now the harder to bear. She had been right, of
course, in her conclusion as to what he would have done had she given
him the opportunity! It was the one thing he had been fighting for,
struggling for, battling for all these months, that clue--and she had
told him only that "Clarke" was behind it all, and that "Clarke" was
Peter Marre. And it had served him little! As though the earth had
opened and swallowed the man and his alias up, there was neither trace
nor sign of Peter Marre.
He knew that well! He had not been idle since that letter came! He had
instantly seized upon what he had hoped would prove the clue that he
could follow to the heart of the web--and the clue had led him nowhere.
Marre, like the Tocsin, was somewhere "on a trip." Marre's office was
not closed. A year ago Marre had taken in with him as partner a young
lawyer by the name of Cleaver, who lacked only, through experience, the
same degree of dishonest finesse and cunning possessed by Marre
himself--a defect which Marre had doubtless counted on speedily
rectifying under his own unholy tutelage! Cleaver was carrying on the
business.
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