"Just around
the corner to get a special-delivery stamp. Of course you'll wait,
Ellison," and I gave Indiman a quick glance. He understood.

Perhaps I was shadowed by the watchers in the areaway. I neither knew
nor cared. My one idea was to catch up with the child, and this time
luck was with me.

The little girl acknowledged shyly that she had learned the tune from a
hand-organ. "It belongs to my uncle Bartolomeo," she explained,
proudly. "It is a good organ, signore. There are little figures of men
and women under the glass front, and when the musica plays they
dance--so."

Uncle Bartolomeo was fortunately at home, and I persuaded him to
accompany me back to 4020 Madison Avenue. He spoke English perfectly,
and looked both honest and shrewd. Well, we would find some way of
getting the truth out of him.

A police-officer opened the door for me. So the blow had fallen
already. I went on up to the library, taking Bartolomeo with me. At the
door I waited a moment.

Brownson sat at the long table, the picture of the zealous and
efficient guardian of public safety. The maid-servant, Mary, had just
been interrogated--of course, it was she who had betrayed us, and
Brownson was evidently her young man. What infernal luck!

"Now, Mr Indiman--" said Brownson, sternly, "but be careful what you
say; it may be used against you."

Indiman told the whole story without reserve, and Brownson listened
with cold incredulity. But Ellison seemed interested.

"A baggage-check handed in at the door," commented the detective, with
judicial impassivity. "Where is this organ-grinder?"

"Here," I answered, and entered with Uncle Bartolomeo.

But the examination, severe as it was, revealed only the bare fact that
Bartolomeo had found the brass baggage-check lying on the sidewalk in
front of No. 4020 Madison Avenue. He was an honest man, and, moreover,
the acticle was of no use to him. He had given it to the servant at the
door to be handed over to the gentleman of the house. That was all he
knew. By the Holy Virgin, he had spoken the truth!

Brownson rang the call-bell. "Bring in the trunk," he said, curtly, and
forthwith two policemen appeared with the fatal box, just as it had
been exhumed from its resting-place in the coal-bin. "Hullo!" blurted
out Ellison, in vast surprise, and somehow my sinking spirits revived
with the word.

"Who is this gentleman?" demanded Brownson, frowning at the
interruption.

"Dr. Ellison," I answere