guess not. Doctor Bertie hasn't taken a vacation since the oldest
inhabitant can remember."

"H'm; that's funny," mused the detective, as one nonplussed. "The name's
just as familiar as an old song. Is your Doctor Farnham a sort of oldish
man?"

"He's elderly, yes; old enough to have a grown daughter." Then the clerk
laughed. "Perhaps you've got things tangled. Perhaps you 'met up' with
Miss Charlotte. She was down on the Gulf Coast last winter."

"Not me," said Broffin, matching the ice-breaking laugh. And then he
registered for a room and passed on into the cafe, deferring to the
appetite which, for the first time in nearly four tedious weeks, he felt
justified in indulging to the untroubled limit.

Having, by the slow but sure process of elimination, finally reduced his
equation to its lowest terms, Broffin put the past four weeks and their
failures behind him, and prepared to draw the net which he hoped would
entangle the lost identity of the bank robber. After a good night's
sleep in a real bed, he awoke refreshed and alert, breakfasted with an
open mind, and presently went about the net-drawing methodically and
with every contingency carefully provided for.

The first step was to assure himself beyond question that Miss Farnham
was the writer of the unsigned letter. This step he was able, by a piece
of great good fortune, to take almost immediately. A bit of morning
gossip with the obliging clerk of the Winnebago House developed the fact
that Dr. Farnham's daughter had once taught in the free kindergarten
which was one of the charitable out-reachings of the Wahaska Public
Library. Two blocks east and one south: Broffin walked them promptly,
made himself known to the librarian as a visitor interested in
kindergarten work, and was cheerfully shown the records. When he turned
to the pages signed "Charlotte Farnham" the last doubt vanished and
assurance was made sure. The anonymous letter writer was found.

It was just here that Matthew Broffin fell under the limitations of his
trade. Though the detective in real life is as little as may be like the
Inspector Buckets and the Javerts of fiction, certain characteristics
persist. Broffin thought he knew the worth of boldness; where it was a
mere matter of snapping the handcuffs upon some desperate criminal, the
boldness was not wanting. But now, when he found himself face to face
with the straightforward expedient, the craft limitations bound him.
Instantly he tho