"his gratefully," and in lieu of signature there was a
gray-coloured piece of paper shaped like this:

[Picture]

Only there were no fingerprints on it.

CHAPTER III

THE MOTHER LODE

It was the following evening, and they had dined together again at the
St. James Club--Jimmie Dale, and Carruthers of the MORNING NEWS-ARGUS.
From Clayton and a discussion of the Metzer murder, the conversation had
turned, not illogically, upon the physiognomy of criminals in general.
Jimmie Dale, lazily ensconced now in a lounging chair in one of the
club's private library rooms, flicked a minute speck of cigar ash from
the sleeve of his dinner jacket, and smiled whimsically across the table
at his friend.

"Oh, I dare say there's a lot in physiognomy, Carruthers," he drawled.
"Never studied the thing, you know--that is, from the standpoint
of crime. Personally, I've only got one prejudice: I distrust, on
principle, the man who wears a perennial and pompous smirk--which isn't,
of course, strictly speaking, physiognomy at all. You see, a man can't
help his eyes being beady or his nose pronounced, but pomposity and a
smirk, now--" Jimmie Dale shrugged his shoulders.

Carruthers laughed--and then glanced ludicrously at Jimmie Dale, as the
door, ajar, was pushed open, and a man entered.

"Speaking of angels," murmured Jimmie Dale--and sat up in his chair.
"Hello, Markel!" he observed casually, "You've met Carruthers, of the
NEWS-ARGUS, haven't you?"

Markel was fat and important; he had beady black eyes, fastidiously
trimmed whiskers--and a pronounced smirk.

Markel blew his nose vigorously, coughed asthmatically, and held out his
hand.

"Of course, certainly," said he effusively. "I've met Carruthers several
times--used his sheet more than once to advertise a new bond flotation."

The dominant note in Markel's voice was an ingratiating and unpleasant
whine, and Carruthers nodded, not very cordially--and shook hands.

Markel went back to the door, closed it carefully, and returned to the
table.

"Fact is," he smiled confidentially, "I saw you two come in here a few
minutes ago, and I've got something that I thought Carruthers might be
glad to have for his society column--say, in the Sunday edition."

He dove into the inside pocket of his coat, produced a large morocco
leather jeweller's case, and, holding it out over the table between
Carruthers and Jimmie Dale, suddenly snapped the cover open--and then,
with a comp