"Your warning comes too late. The mischief is done. Didn't you have brains enough to telegraph?"
"I did just before I started." The despatch was on Mr. Barnes's desk unopened. It had arrived after he had started for the festival.
"Well, well," said the detective, testily, "I suppose you have done your best. That fellow has the devil's luck. What made you think that he had come to New York? Wasn't he sick?"
"I thought that might be a game for an alibi. To find out, I registered, asking for a room near my friend Mr. Mitchel. They gave me the one next to his. I picked the lock of the door between the rooms and peeped in. Seeing no one, I went in. The place was empty. The bird had skipped."
"Take the next train back to Philadelphia, and do the best you can to find out when Mitchel reaches there. He has gone back sure, and will be sick in bed in the morning, or my name is not Barnes. Bring me proof of his trip to and from New York, and I will give you fifty dollars. Skip."
CHAPTER XI.
MR. BARNES RECEIVES SEVERAL LETTERS.
On the morning of the third of January the mail which reached Mr. Barnes contained several letters of interest to those who follow this history. The first which he opened was very brief. It read: