impressed itself on my mind at the
time, either."

"What did Mrs. Parker do when she came to?"

"Oh, she cried as I have never seen a woman cry before. He was dead by
that time, of course."

"Bruce and I saw her down in the elevator to her car. In fact, the
doctor, who had arrived; said that the sooner she was taken home the
better she would be. She was quite hysterical."

"Did she say anything that you remember?"

Downey hesitated.

"Out with it Downey," said the inspector. "What did she say as she was
going down in the elevator?"

"Nothing."

"Tell us. I'll arrest you if you don't."

"Nothing about the murder, on my honour," protested Downey.

Kennedy leaned over suddenly and shot a remark at him, "Then it was
about the note."

Downey was surprised, but not quickly enough. Still he seemed to be
considering something, and in a moment he said:

"I don't know what it was about, but I feel it is my duty, after all, to
tell you. I heard her say, 'I wonder if he knew.'"

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

"What happened after you came back?"

"We entered the ladies' department. No one was there. A woman's
automobile-coat was thrown over a chair in a heap. Mr. Bruce picked it
up. 'It's Mrs. Parker's,' he said. He wrapped it up hastily, and rang
for a messenger."

"Where did he send it?"

"To Mrs. Parker, I suppose. I didn't hear the address."

We next went over the whole suite of offices, conducted by Mr. Downey. I
noted how carefully Kennedy looked into the directors' room through the
open door from the ladies' department. He stood at such an angle that
had he been the assassin he could scarcely have been seen except by
those sitting immediately next Mr. Parker at the directors' table. The
street windows were directly in front of him, and back of him was the
chair on which the motorcoat had been found.

In Parker's own office we spent some time, as well as in Bruce's.
Kennedy made a search for the note, but finding nothing in either
office, turned out the contents of Bruce's scrap-basket. There didn't
seem to be anything in it to interest him, however, even after he had
pieced several torn bits of scraps together with much difficulty, and
he was about to turn the papers back again, when he noticed something
sticking to the side of the basket. It looked like a mass of wet paper,
and that was precisely what it was.

"That's queer," said Kennedy, picking it loose. Then he wrapped it up
carefully a