“Who is John Hemingway?” asked Duane.
“I have no idea,” said Avice; “I never heard uncle speak of him. But there can be no doubt of the authenticity, as this is the writing of my uncle’s typewriter. I recognize the type.”
“Show me where you found it, Miss Trowbridge,” and going home with the girl, Duane examined the desk where she said she found the paper.
“I wonder it was overlooked so long,” he mused.
“No one has thought to go through the desk so thoroughly as I did,” she returned, with a wistful look in her eyes. “Will it save Kane?”
“It may go far toward it,” was the reply; “we must hunt up this man.”
“But my uncle says distinctly not to do that.”
“Such instructions cannot be regarded. In a case like this, he must be found.”
But no trace of the man named Hemingway could be discovered. However, the fact of the message having been written turned the tide of suspicion away from Landon to a degree, and to the best men of the force was assigned the task of discovering the identity or getting some knowledge of Hemingway.
It was a few days later that Judge Hoyt had a caller at his office. A card was brought in, on which, in straggling letters, he read: