rch. We held to the hope that there might be a note, or little clue,
from the girl whose extremity had once led her to send the other
message. Monsieur thought this most probable, and our hopes ran high.

Beginning with a writing desk in the cabin, we examined the book shelves
and every nook and corner, then passed to the staterooms. These gave the
same impression of having been swept clean--cupboards, presses, all were
empty. Only in one drawer, delicately scented, was there a single
item--a hairpin. Here, then, must be Sylvia's room, but otherwise it
was devoid of any article. Equally unproductive did we find the galley,
the crew's quarters, and a small cuddy forward.

Monsieur sat down and pursed his lips.

"They have anticipated our intention," he said, thoughtfully. "Doubtless
the things were emptied into sheets, then either weighted and sunk, or
taken in the boats. But she must have exerted her ingenuity. There
absolutely must be some word left for us. Wait!"

Hurrying to the _Whim_ he returned with his lens, while from the mate he
had borrowed a caliper, a two-foot rule and a sail needle.

"Now we shall search scientifically," he cried. "Remember, that as no
personal belonging remains, even the books being gone, we must infer
they made a great effort to destroy everything that would leave a clue.
They suspected the girl, too, and that made them doubly careful. What
would she do then? Exactly as we would do--hide her message so the
others could not discover it! Now, my boy Jack, you take the sail needle
and probe cushions, pillows and mattresses! My boy Tommy, take my lens
and look for places where the glue has been disturbed on furniture
joints; I will measure the desk, piano, panels--everything--for a secret
hiding place!"

"Well, I'll be darned," Tommy grinned. "You're some cop, professor!"

When each of us had finished and reported failure, Monsieur did not seem
at all discouraged.

"Now we go to the second phase," he said. "Keep in mind, whenever you
search for anything, that it may be under your nose. That is the place
to look, not off at the clouds--and nothing is too insignificant to
escape investigation. For see: I can write on a very thin piece of
paper, roll it into a string, thread it into a bodkin, and weave it into
a rug, curtain, quilt, and so forth; or press it lengthwise into a crack
in the floor. A favorite way is to tie it to a real piece of string, and
throw them carelessly into a waste