lendid specimen of
humanity, taken unawares, without having been given a moment in which to
fight for his life, and yet presumably seeing his murderer, as he seemed
to have been shot directly from the front.

As I looked at that noble face, serene and dignified in its death
pallor, I felt glad that my profession was such as might lead to the
avenging of such a detestable crime.

And suddenly I had a revulsion of feeling against such petty methods as
deductions from trifling clues.

Moreover I remembered my totally mistaken deductions of that very
morning. Let other detectives learn the truth by such claptrap means if
they choose. This case was too large and too serious to be allowed to
depend on surmises so liable to be mistaken. No, I would search for
real evidence, human testimony, reliable witnesses, and so thorough,
systematic, and persevering should my search be, that I would finally
meet with success.

"Here's the clue," said Parmelee's voice, as he grasped my arm and
turned me in another direction.

He pointed to a glittering article on the large desk.

It was a woman's purse, or bag, of the sort known as "gold-mesh."
Perhaps six inches square, it bulged as if overcrowded with some
feminine paraphernalia.

"It's Miss Lloyd's," went on Parmalee. "She lives here, you know--Mr.
Crawford's niece. She's lived here for years and years."

"And you suspect her?" I said, horrified.

"Well, you see, she's engaged to Gregory Hall he's Mr. Crawford's
secretary--and Mr. Crawford didn't approve of the match; and so--"

He shrugged his shoulders in a careless fashion, as if for a woman to
shoot her uncle were an everyday affair.

But I was shocked and incredulous, and said so.

"Where is Miss Lloyd?" I asked. "Does she claim ownership of this gold
bag?"

"No; of course not," returned Parmalee. "She's no fool, Florence Lloyd
isn't! She's locked in her room and won't come out. Been there all the
morning. Her maid says this isn't Miss Lloyd's bag, but of course she'd
say that."

"Well, that question ought to be easily settled. What's in the bag?"

"Look for yourself. Monroe and I ran through the stuff, but there's
nothing to say for sure whose bag it is."

I opened the pretty bauble, and let the contents fall out on the desk.

A crumpled handkerchief, a pair of white kid gloves, a little trinket
known as a "vanity case," containing a tiny mirror and a tinier powder
puff; a couple of small hair-pins, a newspap