' package of dust and lint in a drawer of the table, he
set out for the Eleventh street boarding house.

It was, however, not Russell who figured most prominently in the
accounts of the murder published by the Monday morning newspapers. The
reporters, resenting the reticence they had encountered at Sloanehurst,
and making much of Mrs. Brace's threats, put in the forefront of their
stories an appealing picture of a bereaved mother's one-sided fight for
justice against the baffling combination of the Sloanehurst
secretiveness and indifference and the mysterious circumstances of the
daughter's death. Not one of them questioned the validity of Russell's
alibi.

"With the innocence of the dead girl's fiance established," said one
account, "Sheriff Crown last night made no secret of his chagrin that
Berne Webster had collapsed at the very moment when the sheriff was on
the point of putting him through a rigid cross-examination. The young
lawyer's retirement from the scene, coupled with the Sloane family's
retaining the celebrated detective, Jefferson Hastings, as a buffer
against any questioning of the Sloanehurst people, has given Society,
here and in Virginia, a topic for discussion of more than ordinary
interest."

Another paragraph that caught Hastings' attention, as he read between
mouthfuls of his breakfast, was this:

"Mrs. Brace, discussing the tragedy with a reporter last night, showed a
surprising knowledge of all its incidents. Although she had not left her
apartment in the Walman all day, she had been questioned by both Sheriff
Crown and Mr. Hastings, not to mention the unusually large number of
newspaper writers who besieged her for interviews.

"And it seemed that, in addition to answering the queries put to her by
the investigators, she had accomplished a vast amount of keen inquiry on
her own account. When talking to her, it is impossible for one to escape
the impression that this extraordinarily intelligent woman believes she
can prove the guilt of the man who struck down her daughter."

"Just what I was afraid of," thought the detective. "Nearly every paper
siding with her!"

His face brightened.

"All the better," he consoled himself. "More chance of her overreaching
herself--as long as she don't know what I suspect. I'll get the meaning
of that grey letter yet!"

But he was worried. Berne Webster's collapse, he knew, was too
convenient for Webster--it looked like pretence. Ninety-nine out of
ev