"I found it lying with a pair of gloves tucked inside it on an otherwise empty shelf in the dining-room closet. It struck me as looking too new for a discarded hat of either of the Misses Van Burnam. What do you think?"
"Let me take it," said I.
"O, it's been worn," he smiled, "several times. And the hat-pin is in it, too."
"There is something else I wish to see."
He handed it over.
"I think it belongs to one of them," I declared. "It was made by La Mole of Fifth Avenue, whose prices are simply—wicked."
"But the young ladies have been gone—let me see—five months. Could this have been bought before then?"
"Possibly, for this is an imported hat. But why should it have been left lying about in that careless way? It cost twenty dollars, if not thirty, and if for any reason its owner decided not to take it with her, why didn't she pack it away properly? I have no patience with the modern girl; she is made up of recklessness and extravagance."
"I hear that the young ladies are staying with you," was his suggestive remark.
"They are."