“There is the hatpin, you know,” said Olive. “I have it here, if you care to see it. But the police decided it meant nothing.”
“Nothing means nothing,” said Zizi, with a funny little smile. “Please let us see the hatpin.”
Olive took it from a desk drawer and handed it to the girl, who immediately passed it over to Penny Wise.
He looked at it with interest, for a silent minute.
“There couldn’t be a better portrait parlé!” he exclaimed. “This pin belongs to a lady with dark, straight hair,—coarse, and lots of it. She has good teeth, and she is proud of them. Her tastes incline to the flashy, and she is fond of strong perfumes. She is of somewhat untidy habits and given to sentiment. She is intellectual and efficient and, if not wealthy, she has at least a competence.”
“For gracious goodness sake!” gasped Olive; “and I’ve studied that hatpin for hours and never could deduce a thing!”
“What I have read from it may be of no use to us,” said Wise, indifferently; “I think it will be a sufficient indication of which way to look to find the lady in question, but that doesn’t necessarily mean the finding of her will do any good.”
“But she may know something to tell us that will do good,” Olive suggested; “at any rate, let’s find her. How will you go about it?”
“Why, I think it will be a good plan to ask the stenographer, Jenny Boyd, if she ever saw anyone there who fits our description.”
“She’s the lady of the powder-paper, maybe,” murmured Zizi, and Penny Wise said, “Of course,” in a preoccupied way, and went on: