on prison,
he was on his way to New York for requisition papers. As he had said, he
was tired, yet despite his need of complete rest his thoughts persisted
in rehearsing all the intricate details of the reasoning which had at
last led him to the solution of the mystery. As he lay in his upper
berth awake these words reached his ears:

"If I knew that man Barnes was after me, I should simply surrender."

This promised to be the beginning of an entertaining conversation, and
as he could not sleep, Mr. Barnes prepared to listen. Extensive
experience as a detective had made him long ago forget the philosophic
arguments for and against eavesdropping. The voice which had attracted
him was low, but his ears were keen. He located it as coming from the
section next ahead of his, number eight. A second voice replied:

"I have no doubt that you would. But I wouldn't. You overestimate the
ability of the modern detective. I should actually enjoy being hounded
by one of them. It would be so much pleasure, and I think so easy, to
elude him."

The last speaker possessed a voice which was musical, and he articulated
distinctly, though he scarcely ventured above a loud whisper. Mr. Barnes
cautiously raised his head, arranging his pillows so that his ear would
be near the partition. Fortunately, the two men next to him had taken
the whole section, and the upper berth had been allowed to remain
closed. Mr. Barnes now found that he could readily follow the
conversation, which continued thus:

"But see how that Barnes tracked this Pettingill day and night until he
had trapped him. Just as the fellow supposed himself safe, he was
arrested. You must admit that was clever work."

"Oh, yes, clever enough in its way, but there was nothing specially
artistic about it. Not that the detective was to blame; it was the
fault of the criminal. There was no chance for the artistic." Yet Mr.
Barnes had used that very adjective to himself in commenting upon his
conduct of this case. The man continued: "The crime itself was
inartistic. Pettingill bungled, Barnes was shrewd enough to detect the
flaw, and with his experience and skill in such cases the end was
inevitable."

"It seems to me either that you have not read the full account of the
case, or else you do not appreciate the work of the detective. Why, all
the clue he had was a button."

"Ah! Only a button--but such a button! That is where I say that the
criminal was inartistic. He should not