he could invent no explanation for
it. He repaired finally to the office of the attendant and asked for
the girl's clothes, receiving permission to examine a small bundle.

"Where's the rest?" he demanded.

"That's all she had," said the man.

"No baggage at all?"

"Not a thing but what she stood up in. The coroner has her jewelry and
things of that sort."

Anderson searched the contents of the bundle with the utmost care, but
found no mark of any sort. The garments, although inexpensive, were
beautifully neat and clean, and they displayed the most marvelous
examples of needlework he had ever seen. Among the effects was a plush
muff, out of which, as he picked it up, fell a pair of little knitted
mittens--or was there a pair? Finding but the one, he shook the muff
again, then looked through the other things.

"Where's the other mitten?" he inquired.

"There 'ain't been but the one," the attendant told him.

"Are you sure?"

"See here, do you think I'm trying to hold out a yarn mitten on you?
I say there 'ain't been but the one. I was here when she came, and I
know."

Discouraged by the paucity of clues which this place offered, Anderson
went next to the coroner's office.

The City Hall newspaper squad had desks in this place, but Paul paid
no attention to them or to their occupants. He went straight to the
wicket and asked for the effects of the dead girl.

It appeared that Burns had told his practical joke broadcast, for
the young man heard his name mentioned, and then some one behind him
snickered. He paid no attention, however, for the clerk had handed him
a small leather bag or purse, together with a morphine-bottle, about
the size and shape of an ordinary vaseline-bottle. The bag was cheap
and bore no maker's name or mark. Inside of it was a brooch, a ring, a
silver chain, and a slip of paper. Stuck to the bottom of the reticule
was a small key. Paul came near overlooking the last-named article,
for it was well hidden in a fold near the corner. Now a key to an
unknown lock is not much to go on at best, therefore he gave his
attention to the paper. It was evidently a scrap torn from a sheet of
wrapping-paper, and bore these figures in pencil:

9.25
6.25
----
3.00

While he was reading these figures Paul heard a reporter say, loudly,
"Now that I have written the paper, who will take it?"

Another answered, "I will."

"Who are you?" inquired the first voice.

"Hawkshaw, the detective.