haven't a doubt I would have broken my neck, but I landed on--you'll
never guess what! I landed head first on the very pillow which was under
inspection at the time of the wreck. You remember, don't you? Where did
I put that package?"

He found it finally and opened it on a table, displaying with some
theatricalism a rectangular piece of muslin and a similar patch of
striped ticking.

"You recognize it?" he said. "The stains, you see, and the hole made by
the dirk. I tried to bring away the entire pillow, but they thought I
was stealing it, and made me give it up."

Richey touched the pieces gingerly. "By George," he said, "and you
carry that around in your pocket! What if you should mistake it for your
handkerchief?"

But Mr. Hotchkiss was not listening. He stood bent somewhat forward,
leaning over the table, and fixed me with his ferret-like eyes.

"Have you see the evening papers, Mr. Blakeley?" he inquired.

I glanced to where they lay unopened, and shook my head.

"Then I have a disagreeable task," he said with evident relish. "Of
course, you had considered the matter of the man Harrington's death
closed, after the wreck. I did myself. As far as I was concerned, I
meant to let it remain so. There were no other survivors, at least none
that I knew of, and in spite of circumstances, there were a number of
points in your favor."

"Thank you," I put in with a sarcasm that was lost on him.

"I verified your identity, for instance, as soon as I recovered from
the shock. Also--I found on inquiring of your tailor that you invariably
wore dark clothing."

McKnight came forward threateningly. "Who are you, anyhow?" he demanded.
"And how is this any business of yours?" Mr. Hotchkiss was entirely
unruffled.

"I have a minor position here," he said, reaching for a visiting card.
"I am a very small patch on the seat of government, sir."

McKnight muttered something about certain offensive designs against the
said patch and retired grumbling to the window. Our visitor was opening
the paper with a tremendous expenditure of energy.

"Here it is. Listen." He read rapidly aloud:

"The Pittsburg police have sent to Baltimore two detectives who are
looking up the survivors of the ill-fated Washington Flier. It has
transpired that Simon Harrington, the Wood Street merchant of that city,
was not killed in the wreck, but was murdered in his berth the night
preceding the accident. Shortly before the collision, John Flander