rish
blood. Without a word he went out into the public hall and closed
the door behind him.

Marsh returned, and began to bathe the girl's forehead and the
bruise with the cold water. While he worked over her, the
photographer approached Morgan and held out an envelope.

"After your friend here picked the girl up," he explained, "I
noticed this lying near her."

Morgan took the envelope. After a hasty glance he extended it to
Marsh. "A letter to this girl with a St. Louis postmark!" he gasped.

"Good!" exclaimed Marsh, without stopping his work to revive the
girl. "Just what I have been watching for. Open it."

Morgan understood. Turning to the photographer, he handed back the
envelope. "Slip into the kitchen, steam this open and make a quick
copy." Then, noticing the case on the floor beside the man, he
added, "Finished your work upstairs?"

The man nodded.

"Then make a photograph of this letter at the same time. The
handwriting may prove useful."

Taking the letter and picking up his case, the man went back to the
kitchen. Morgan turned to Marsh.

"How is she coming on?" he inquired.

There was a slight flutter of the eyelids as he spoke and Marsh
called his attention to it. "She will be all right in a moment," he
said.

Presently Jane Atwood's eyes opened slowly, and she gazed in a
bewildered and uncomprehending way at the two men bending anxiously
over her. Marsh continued to bathe her forehead and gradually she
seemed to realize her position. She struggled slowly into a sitting
position on the davenport while the two men stood back, awaiting her
first words. Contrary to the usual idea of feminine return to
consciousness, she did not inquire where she was. Instead she
startled the two men by asking, "Did you get him?"

"Get who?" counter questioned Marsh, taking the lead.

"The man who was outside the door," was the reply.

Marsh and Morgan exchanged quick glances. To them it was a
confirmation that the listener of the night before was still seeking
information about the case in hand. Moreover, here might be a clue
to his identity, or at least a description that would prove helpful,
so Marsh seated himself on the davenport at her side, while Morgan
went to a chair across the room.

Both men knew instinctively that this would put the girl more at her
ease than if they continued to stand over her like inquisitors.
Marsh continued the conversation. "We know nothing about what
happened," he said.