“Well, when I was hunting through that gold-mesh bag, I discovered a lady's visiting card with that name on it. It had slipped between the linings, and so had not been noticed before.”
To my surprise, this piece of information seemed to annoy Mr. Crawford greatly.
“No!” he exclaimed. “In the bag? Then some one has put it there! for I looked over all the bag's contents myself.”
“It was between the pocket and the lining,” said I; “it is there still, for as I felt sure no one else would discover it, I left it there. Mr. Goodrich has the bag.”
“Oh, I don't want to see it,” he exclaimed angrily. “And I tell you anyway, Mr. Burroughs, that bag is worthless as a clue. Take my advice, and pay no further attention to it.”
I couldn't understand Mr. Crawford's decided attitude against the bag as a clue, but I dropped the subject, for I didn't wish to tell him I had made plans to trace up that visiting card.
“It is difficult to find anything that is a real clue,” I said.
“Yes, indeed. The whole affair is mysterious, and, for my part, I cannot form even a conjecture as to who the villain might have been. He certainly left no trace.”
“Where is the revolver?” I said, picturing the scene in imagination.
Philip Crawford started as if caught unawares.