suppressed a smile. "It is a pity," he remarked. "Had you
brought another light upon the scene, you might have been blessed with
an idea on a subject that is as puzzling as any connected with the whole
affair."

"You have not heard what I have to say on a still more important
matter," said she. "When we have exhausted the one topic, we may both
feel like turning on the fresh lights you speak of. Mr. Gryce, on what
does this mystery hinge? On the bit of writing which these young people
were so alarmed at having left behind them."

"Ah! It is from that you would work! Well, it is a good point to start
from. But we have found no such bit of writing."

"Have you searched for it? You did not know till now that any importance
might be attached to a morsel of paper with some half-dozen words
written on it."

"True, but a detective searches just the same. We ransacked that room as
few rooms have been ransacked in years. Not for a known clew, but for an
unknown one. It seemed necessary in the first place to learn who this
man was. His papers were consequently examined. But they told nothing.
If there had been a scrap of writing within view or in his desk----"

"It was not on his person? You had his pockets searched, his
clothes----"

"A man who has died from violence is always searched, madam. I leave no
stone unturned in a mysterious case like this."

Miss Butterworth's face assumed an indefinable expression of
satisfaction, which did not escape Mr. Gryce's eye, though that member
was fixed, according to his old habit, on the miniature of her father
which she wore, in defiance of fashion, at her throat.

"I wonder," said she, in a musing tone, "if I imagined or really saw on
Mr. Adams's face a most extraordinary expression; something more than
the surprise or anguish following a mortal blow? A look of
determination, arguing some superhuman resolve taken at the moment of
death, or--can you read that face for me? Or did you fail to perceive
aught of what I say? It would really be an aid to me at this moment to
know."

"I noted that look. It was not a common one. But I cannot read it for
you----"

"I wonder if the young man you call Sweetwater can. I certainly think it
has a decided bearing on this mystery; such a fold to the lips, such a
look of mingled grief and--what was that you said? Sweetwater has not
been admitted to the room of death? Well, well, I shall have to make my
own suggestion, then. I shall have to p