CAPTAIN CONVERSE WAS ENDOWED WITH THE IMPASSIVENESS
OF AN INDIAN, NOR COULD ONE IMAGINE HIM AGITATED
IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.
For answer Mr. Converse drew forth his large and well-worn pocket-book, from which he took one by one, and laid upon the desk, two slips of paper, a small hairpin, two half-consumed cigarettes—the paper of which was a dark brown, like butcher's wrapping-papers—and lastly, a dainty bit of cambric and lace, to which clung a delicate odor of stephanotis,—a lady's handkerchief.
Mr. Merkel adjusted his spectacles; the District Attorney became wholly serious; and together they bent over the grotesque assortment, staring as though the mystery might be disclosed then and there.
Presently both sat back in their chairs, and turned expectantly to Converse.
"Well, sir," he began gravely, "I believe we must look to a certain lady for a detailed account of her connection with this case."
"A woman!" ejaculated the lawyer. "Well, I am not surprised; it could not promise much without a woman—no more than that affair of the Garden could have been without Eve.... And do you know who she is?"
Mr. Converse raised a protesting hand.
"No," said he; "not yet. But a woman was in Mr. Nettleton's offices so close to the time the crime was committed that her presence is quite the most important factor at present—that, and Clay Fairchild's disappearance."
Both listeners showed their astonishment.