"The Oceanic will leave her dock this afternoon."
The face of the detective seemed to flush with rising joy.
On the instant he engaged a cabin and walked out.
"We will see how the chase ends," said he, in undertones. "It may prove a long one, but, thanks to Jason Marrow's story, I may not be altogether on the wrong trail."
An hour later he stood once more beneath the roof of the murdered millionaire.
This time he was met by Foster Kipp, the dead man's son, a young man of twenty-five, with an open countenance, but eager and determined.
"I heard of this terrible affair in Albany, whither I went on some business for father. It came sooner than he expected."
"He expected it, then?"
"Yes; once he confided to me that he had an enemy, and said he was 'blacklisted.' I never pressed him for particulars, for he was reticent, but I firmly believe that the blow which fell last night was the one he dreaded."
"It was," said the detective. "Your father was killed by a hand in whose shadow he must have been for at least six months."