ers two days before--the letter of 'E. Roe,
On the Square.'

The body of course must go to the Morgue and the coroner, and I told
the officer where I might be found or heard of, if wanted for the
inquest, and then we withdrew.

'I was quite sure it was your brunette,' declared Dave, now grown
communicative. 'Not by recognition; you know, I only saw "her" once
and then at some distance, but thanks to the honest guards and
ourselves--Murphy and I, that is--the body was not rifled, and I
myself helped to search the pockets, at the sergeant's orders, and to
examine the belt he wore. That gave me my clue; in it were half a
dozen more of Lausch's dew-drop sparklers, unless I am much mistaken,
and two more of the pink topaz lot. He seemed to vary in his way of
carrying his treasures.'

'I think I can explain that,' I said. 'When he carried that chamois
bag, while disguised as a woman, he meant, no doubt, before laying
aside the disguise, to negotiate the sale of them, and so had them in
readiness. He carried the emerald, you remember, and the other things
he sold and tried to sell, in a little bag, so the tradesman said.'

'Well!' said Dave ruefully; 'one of the gang has slipped through our
fingers in a way we did not look for. Have you a theory that will
account for this, Carl?'

I turned upon him almost fiercely.

'I have, and so have you, Dave Brainerd. I don't for one moment doubt
that my mistaken policy has brought this murder about, and you can see
how it has complicated things. When I found through the brunette's
note--I can't seem to find any other name for him--that in all
probability we knew the men who had made away with Trent, I thought
the game was almost in our hands, and now----' I dropped my head
dejectedly.

'And now we're a good deal mixed,' supplemented Dave dryly. 'We're in
a dilemma!'

It was indeed a dilemma, if no worse.

When Miss Jenrys had put that note from the 'little brunette' into my
hand, I had opened it with scant interest, for I only desired through
this medium to keep, if possible, some trace of her--or him. When I
opened the letter and saw the small, sharp, and much-slanted
handwriting, I almost exclaimed aloud in my surprise.

The writing was the counterpart of that of the letter written to Mr.
Trent, and opened by his daughter and Hilda O'Neil--the letter
proposing a way to liberate Gerald Trent!

I could hardly wait until I could compare the two, and verify my
belief, and t