no matter where, even if she had to touch that
blood-stained coat to search the pockets, she would not go without them.

The dark blind ought to be pulled down, because from some high window
she might be seen and identified afterward, if trouble came of this
night's work. To reach the blind she had to step over the feet which
sprawled beyond the chair; and stretching up her arm to touch the broken
cord, she was conscious that her dress brushed the dead man's knees.

Next she went to the bed, and began turning over Peterson's miserable
belongings. She prayed that, by a miracle, she might come across the
sealed envelope. As for the pearls, if the murderer were of the Peterson
type, to steal them would have been his first thought. But--it would
need a stout-hearted criminal to go through the pockets of his victim,
and if the motive were other than theft, it might be that the pearls and
papers were still on the body. If Clo failed to find them elsewhere she
would have to ransack those pockets. The thought was too horrible to
dwell upon. Frantically she tossed over the contents of the suitcase,
lifting and shaking every garment scattered on the bed. She peered under
the pillows; she pulled out the drawers of wash-stand and
dressing-table; but there was nothing to be found there, not even a
letter, not a torn morsel of paper which could serve Beverley's cause.
Clo's spirit groaned a prayer for strength when at last--sick and
shaking, her palms damp--she had to set about the pillage of the dead
man's pockets. Some she needed merely to touch with her finger ends, to
make sure that they were empty. Others had to be searched to their
depths: and the girl felt convinced that she would die if in the horrid
business she plunged a hand into some unseen sop of blood.

From a waistcoat pocket she pulled out a small leather cigarette case,
still warm from the wearer's breast--another proof, if she had let
herself think of it, that he had not long been dead. In the leather
case, behind a store of tightly packed cigarettes, was a card--the
cheapest sort of visiting card, on which, scrawled in pencil, was the
name Lorenz Czerny. On the back of this card, in a different
handwriting, but also in pencil, a memorandum had been scribbled. A
glance showed Clo that it consisted of names, abbreviated addresses, and
the hours of appointments, or perhaps of trains. She did not stop to
examine the card thoroughly, but slipped it into her pocket for