amount to
anything, and that is what makes it so puzzling. How can I work this
thing out when I don't even know where to start? I wish Jim Farland
would come."

Jim Farland did, at that moment. Murk let him in, and the detective
tossed his hat on a chair, sat down in another, lighted one of his own
black cigars, and looked at Sidney Prale through narrowed eyes.

"Well, Jim?" Prale asked.

"I talk when I've really got something to say, but I'm not going to make
general conversation and muddle your brains with a lot of scattered
junk," Jim Farland replied. "I'll say this much--things are looking much
better for you."

"That sounds good, Jim. Can't you tell me anything?" Prale asked,
sitting forward on his chair.

"The barber and the clothing merchant have fixed up a part of your
alibi, Sid, as perhaps Murk has told you. That is the first point. It
makes it look impossible for you to have slain Rufus Shepley, and I
think Lawyer Coadley could get the charge against you dismissed on that
alone."

"But I want to be entirely cleared."

"Exactly. You don't want to leave the slightest doubt in the mind of a
single person. There is but one way to clear you absolutely, Sid. We've
got to show conclusively that you could not have killed Shepley, and the
best way to do that is to find the person who did."

"I understand, Jim."

"There seems to be some sort of a mysterious alliance against you, Sid.
You say that you can't understand why you should have enemies that hate
you so, and I know you're telling the truth. Whether that business has
anything to do with the murder, or not, I am not prepared to say now.
But we want to find out about this enemy business, too, don't we?"

"Certainly," Prale said.

"I followed Kate Gilbert. I know where she lives. She does not belong to
a rich family and does not live in splendor. But she wears expensive
gowns and has plenty of spending money, and has mysterious dealings with
a distinguished-looking man. Her father is mixed up in it in some way,
too. I went through their apartment, Sid. Somebody in that apartment
wrote the anonymous notes you received."

"What?" Prale gasped.

"I found a tablet of the same sort of paper, and scraps of writing in
the wastebasket that were in the same hand. Think, Sid! On the ship----"

"By George!" Prale exclaimed. "She could have slipped into my stateroom
and pinned that note to my pillow, and she could have stuck the second
one on my suit case a