that's immaterial. Arranged
this way it almost makes sense. Fill out that 'p.-' with the rest of the
word, as I imagine it, and it makes 'papers,' and add this scrap and you
have:

"'Man with papers (in) lower ten, car seven. Get (them).'

McKnight slapped Hotchkiss on the back. "You're a trump," he said. "Br-
is Bronson, of course. It's almost too easy. You see, Mr. Blakeley
here engaged lower ten, but found it occupied by the man who was later
murdered there. The man who did the thing was a friend of Bronson's,
evidently, and in trying to get the papers we have the motive for the
crime."

"There are still some things to be explained." Mr. Hotchkiss wiped his
glasses and put them on. "For one thing, Mr. Blakeley, I am puzzled by
that bit of chain."

I did not glance at McKnight. I felt that the hand, with which I was
gathering up the bits of torn paper were shaking. It seemed to me that
this astute little man was going to drag in the girl in spite of me.

CHAPTER XVIII. A NEW WORLD

Hotchkiss jotted down the bits of telegram and rose.

"Well," he said, "we've done something. We've found where the murderer
left the train, we know what day he went to Baltimore, and, most
important of all, we have a motive for the crime."

"It seems the irony of fate," said McKnight, getting up, "that a
man should kill another man for certain papers he is supposed to be
carrying, find he hasn't got them after all, decide to throw suspicion
on another man by changing berths and getting out, bag and baggage, and
then, by the merest fluke of chance, take with him, in the valise he
changed for his own, the very notes he was after. It was a bit of luck
for him."

"Then why," put in Hotchkiss doubtfully, "why did he collapse when he
heard of the wreck? And what about the telephone message the station
agent sent? You remember they tried to countermand it, and with some
excitement."

"We will ask him those questions when we get him," McKnight said. We
were on the unrailed front porch by that time, and Hotchkiss had put
away his notebook. The mother of the twins followed us to the steps.

"Dear me," she exclaimed volubly, "and to think I was forgetting to tell
you! I put the young man to bed with a spice poultice on his ankle: my
mother always was a firm believer in spice poultices. It's wonderful
what they will do in croup! And then I took the children and went down
to see the wreck. It was Sunday, and the mister had gone to