d man. Then he uttered an exclamation
of surprise not unmixed with horror.

"Good Lord!"

"You know him?" questioned Carroll easily.

"Know him? I'll say I do. Why, man, that's Roland Warren!"

"Warren! Roland Warren! Not the clubman?"

"The very same one, Carroll, an' none other. Well, I'm a sonovagun!
Sa-a-ay, something surely _has_ been started here." He swung around on
the taxi-driver. "You, Walters!"

"Yes, sir?"

"You are sure the suit-case is still in front?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well"--to Carroll--"that makes it easier. It's the woman's suit-case,
and if we can't find out who she is from that, we're pretty bum, eh?"

"Looks so, Erie. You're satisfied"--this to Walters--"that that is her
suit-case?"

"Absolutely. It hasn't been off the front since she handed it to me at
the station."

Carroll swung the suit-case to the inside of the cab. It opened readily.
Leverage kept his light trained on it as Carroll dug swiftly through the
contents. Finally the eyes of the two men met. Carroll's expression was
one of frank amazement; Leverage's reflected sheer unbelief.

"It can't be, Carroll!"

"Yet--it is!"

"Sufferin' wildcats!" breathed Leverage. "The suit-case ain't the woman's
at all! It's Warren's!"

CHAPTER III

"FIND THE WOMAN"

The thing was incomprehensible, yet true. Not a single article of
feminine apparel was contained in the suit-case. Not only that, but
every garment therein which bore an identification mark was the
property of Roland Warren, the man whose body leered at them from the
floor of the taxicab.

The two detectives again inspected the suit-case. An extra suit had been
neatly folded. The pockets bore the label of a leading tailor, and the
name "Roland R. Warren." The tailor-made shirts and underwear bore the
maker's name and Warren's initials. The handkerchiefs were Warren's. Even
those articles which were without name or initials contained the same
laundry-mark as those which they knew belonged to the dead man.

Carroll's face showed keen interest. This newest development had rather
startled him, and made an almost irresistible appeal to his love for the
bizarre in crime. The very fact that the circumstances smacked of the
impossible intrigued him. He narrowed his eyes and gazed again upon the
form of the dead man. Finally he nudged Leverage and designated three
initials on the end of the suit-case.

"R.R.W.--Roland R. Warren!" Leverage grunted. "It's his, all right,