"Did you happen to look in the cab after the young woman left it?" he inquired.
"No."
"Had any fares since?"
"No."
Mr. Birnes opened the door of the closed cab and glanced in. Perhaps there might be a stray glove, a handkerchief, some more definite clew than this vague description. He scrutinized the inside of the vehicle carefully; there was nothing. Yes, by Jingo, here was something—a white streak under the edge of the cushion on the seat! Mr. Birnes' hopeful fingers fished it out. It was a white envelope, sealed and—and addressed to him!
If you are as clever as I imagine you are, you will find this.
My address is No. —— East Thirty-seventh Street. I shall be
pleased to see you if you will call.
E. VAN CORTLANDT WYNNE.
It was most disconcerting, really.
CHAPTER VII
A WINGED MESSENGER
A snow-white pigeon dropped down out of an azure sky and settled on a top-most girder of the great Singer Building. For a time it rested there, with folded pinions, in a din of clanging hammers; and a workman far out on a delicately balanced beam of steel paused in his labors to regard the bird with friendly eyes. The pigeon returned his gaze unafraid.