The Secret House. Wallace Edgar

glanced down at the headlines on the front page, then with a horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook.

      "Good Lord!" he exclaimed.

      Jamieson swung round in his swivel chair.

      "What's up?" he inquired.

      "Farrington!" said Frank, huskily. "Farrington has committed suicide!"

      "Yes, we've a column about it," remarked Jamieson, complacently. "A pretty good story." Then suddenly: "You knew him?" he asked.

      Frank Doughton lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. "I – I was with him at the theatre on the night he disappeared," he said.

      Jamieson whistled softly.

      Doughton rose hurriedly and reached for his hat.

      "I must go to them. Perhaps something can be done. Doris – " he broke off, unable to continue, and turned away sharply.

      Jamieson looked at him sympathetically.

      "Why don't you go round to Brakely Square?" he suggested. "There may be new developments – possibly a mistake. You note that the body has not been discovered."

      Out upon the pavement, Frank caught a passing taxi.

      He drove first to the city offices which were Farrington's headquarters. A short talk with the chief clerk was more than enlightening. A brief note in the handwriting of the millionaire announced his intention, "tired of the world," to depart therefrom.

      "But why?" asked the young man, in bewilderment.

      "Mr. Doughton, you don't seem to quite realize the importance of this tragedy," said the chief clerk, quietly. "Mr. Farrington was a financial king – a multi-millionaire. Or at least, he was so considered up till this morning. We have examined his private books, and it now appears that he had speculated heavily during the last few weeks – he has lost everything, every penny of his own and his ward's fortune. Last night, in a fit of despair, he ended his life. Even his chief clerk had no knowledge of his transactions."