car in front of the house and honking until some
one comes out. He has a code of signals with the horn, which I never
remember. Two long and a short blast mean, I believe, "Send out a box of
cigarettes," and six short blasts, which sound like a police call, mean
"Can you lend me some money?" To-night I knew something was up, for he
got out and rang the door-bell like a Christian.

They came into the library, and Hotchkiss wiped his collar until it
gleamed. McKnight was aggressively cheerful.

"Not pinched yet!" he exclaimed. "What do you think of that for luck!
You always were a fortunate devil, Lawrence."

"Yes," I assented, with some bitterness, "I hardly know how to contain
myself for joy sometimes. I suppose you know"--to Hotchkiss--"that the
police were here while we were at Cresson, and that they found the bag
that I brought from the wreck?"

"Things are coming to a head," he said thoughtfully "unless a little
plan that I have in mind--" he hesitated.

"I hope so; I am pretty nearly desperate," I said doggedly. "I've got a
mental toothache, and the sooner it's pulled the better."

"Tut, tut," said McKnight, "think of the disgrace to the firm if its
senior member goes up for life, or--" he twisted his handkerchief into a
noose, and went through an elaborate pantomime.

"Although jail isn't so bad, anyhow," he finished, "there are fellows
that get the habit and keep going back and going back." He looked at
his watch, and I fancied his cheerfulness was strained. Hotchkiss was
nervously fumbling my book.

"Did you ever read The Purloined Letter, Mr. Blakeley?" he inquired.

"Probably, years ago," I said. "Poe, isn't it?"

He was choked at my indifference. "It is a masterpiece," he said, with
enthusiasm. "I re-read it to-day."

"And what happened?"

"Then I inspected the rooms in the house off Washington Circle. I--I
made some discoveries, Mr. Blakeley. For one thing, our man there is
left-handed." He looked around for our approval. "There was a small
cushion on the dresser, and the scarf pins in it had been stuck in with
the left hand."

"Somebody may have twisted the cushion," I objected, but he looked hurt,
and I desisted.

"There is only one discrepancy," he admitted, "but it troubles me.
According to Mrs. Carter, at the farmhouse, our man wore gaudy pajamas,
while I found here only the most severely plain night-shirts."

"Any buttons off?" McKnight inquired, looking again at his watch.

"The bu