anitor, indicating a bulging burlap bag.

"Miss Tourville's, also?" queries Craig.

The janitor nodded assent.

Kennedy surely obtained his money's worth of junk as the janitor spread
the contents of the bag on the cellar floor. With his walking stick he
pawed over it minutely, now and then stooping to examine something more
or less carefully. He had gone through somewhat more than half of the
rubbish that had come from the apartments when he came upon what looked
like the broken remains of a little one-ounce dark-colored, labelless
bottle.

Kennedy picked it up and sniffed at it. He said nothing, but I saw his
brow knit with thought. A moment later he wrapped it in a piece of
tissue paper, thanked the janitor, and we mounted the cellar steps to
the street.

"I think I'll try to see Faber tonight," he remarked as we walked down
the avenue. "It will do no harm at any rate."

Fortunately, we found the young millionaire art connoisseur at home, in
a big house which he had inherited from his father, on Madison Avenue,
in the Murray Hill section.

"The death of Miss Fleming has completely upset me," he confessed after
we had introduced ourselves without telling too much. "You see, I was
quite well acquainted with her."

Kennedy said nothing, but I could feel that he was longing to ask
questions leading up to whether Faber had been the mysterious diner in
the Fleming Studio the night before.

"I suppose you are acquainted with Watteau's 'Fete du Printemps'?" shot
out Craig, after a few inconsequential questions, watching Faber's face
furtively.

"Indeed I am," replied the young man, apparently not disconcerted in the
least.

The fact was that he seemed quite willing, even eager to discuss the
painting. I could not make it out, unless it might be that any subject
was less painful than the sudden death of Miss Fleming.

"Yes," he continued voluntarily, "I suppose you know it represents a
group of dancers. The central figure of the group, as everyone believes,
is reputed to be the passionate and jealous Madame de Montespan, whom
the beautiful Madame de Maintenon replaced in the affections of Louis
XIV.

"Why, no one thinks of Watteau, with his delightful daintiness and many
graceful figures on such masterfully disposed backgrounds as a portrait
painter. But the Fete shows, I have always contended, that he drew on
many real faces for his characters. Yes, he could paint portraits, too,
wonderfully minute and exac