r parcel which he laid upon a
stand at the investigator's elbow.

"This is the bayonet, sir," said he. "Mr. Stillman, the coroner,
objected to letting me have it at first, but changed his mind after I
had talked to him for a while."

"Did you take the photograph to Berg in Christie Place?"

"Yes, sir. He recognized it at once as that of the person in
question."

"And you made inquiries upon the other point?"

"I did. Neither Mr. Stillman nor any of the men who removed the body
of Hume have been out of town within a week. I also questioned Mr.
Osborne; his answer was the same. Brolatsky's reply was similar; and
he also said that Hume had not ridden on a railroad in years."

"That will be all, Fuller; thank you."

The brisk young man had reached the door when the investigator added:

"One moment."

He scribbled something upon a pad, tore off the leaf and handed it to
his aid.

"Look these things up at once."

Fuller took the paper, glanced at it and then replied:

"Very well, sir."

Seated in his big chair with the jar of Greek tobacco and sheaf of
brown paper wrappers before him, Ashton-Kirk did not display any haste
in removing the covering from the bayonet that had let the life out of
the art dealer. Rather he sank deeper into the arms of the chair; the
cigarette end became gray and dead between his fingers; the strangely
brilliant eyes closed as though he had fallen asleep.

But Pendleton, who understood his friend's ways, knew better; the
keen, swift-moving mind was but arranging the developments of the day,
weighing them, giving to each its proper value. A little later and the
eyes would unclose, more than likely alight with some new idea, some
fresh purpose drawn from his reflections.

And as Pendleton waited he, too, fell into a musing state and also
began marshaling the facts as _he_ saw them. Ashton-Kirk, during
dinner, had told him those regarding the visit of Edyth Vale the day
before.

"Pen, you know I don't usually do this," the investigator had informed
him. "But as you know so much already, and your feelings in the matter
being what they are, I think it best that you should know more."

And now Pendleton, as he rolled and consumed cigarette after
cigarette, went over the facts as they had been laid before him.

"And Morris," said he to himself, as he reached the end of his
friend's recital; "now what sort of a mess has Allan Morris got
himself into? And after he had got into it, why