elf into her mother's
arms.

Mr. Gryce thought he understood the situation. Here was a little
kleptomaniac whose weakness the mother was struggling to hide. Light
was pouring in. He felt his body's weight less on that miserable foot of
his.

"Does that frighten you? Are you so affected by the thought of blood?"

"Don't ask me. And I put the thing under my pillow! I thought it was
so--so pretty."

"Mrs. Watkins," Mr. Gryce from that moment ignored the daughter, "did
you see it there?"

"Yes; but I didn't know where it came from. I had not seen my daughter
stoop. I didn't know where she got it till I read that bulletin."

"Never mind that. The question agitating me is whether any stain was
left under that pillow. We want to be sure of the connection between
this possible weapon and the death by stabbing which we all deplore--if
there is a connection."

"I didn't see any stain, but you can look for yourself. The bed has been
made up, but there was no change of linen. We expected to remain here; I
see no good to be gained by hiding any of the facts now."

"None whatever, Madam."

"Come, then. Caroline, sit down and stop crying. Mr. Gryce believes that
your only fault was in not taking this object at once to the desk."

"Yes, that's all," acquiesced the detective after a short study of the
shaking figure and distorted features of the girl. "You had no idea, I'm
sure, where this weapon came from, or for what it had been used. That's
evident."

Her shudder, as she seated herself, was very convincing. She was too
young to simulate so successfully emotions of this character.

"I'm glad of that," she responded, half fretfully, half gratefully, as
Mr. Gryce followed her mother into the adjoining room. "I've had a bad
enough time of it without being blamed for what I didn't know and didn't
do."

Mr. Gryce laid little stress upon these words, but much upon the lack of
curiosity she showed in the minute and careful examination he now made
of her room. There was no stain on the pillow-cover and none on the
bureau-spread where she might very naturally have laid the cutter down
on first coming into her room. The blade was so polished that it must
have been rubbed off somewhere, either purposely or by accident. Where
then, since not here? He asked to see her gloves--the ones she had worn
the previous night.

"They are the same she is wearing now," the anxious mother assured him.
"Wait, and I will get them for you."