there anything else--any scratches
or bruises on his hands?"

"No--nary a scratch. He had real fine hands," said the coroner. "But
they did have a little dirt on 'em--right on three of the knuckles of
the left hand and on one on the right--the kind of dirt you can't rub
off."

"Did it look as if he'd tried to rub it off?"

"Looked as if he'd washed it a little and it wouldn't come."

"Just common black dirt?"

"Yes, kind of grimy--the kind that gits in and stays."

Garrison reflected that a sign of this nature might and might not prove
important. Everything depended on further developments. One deduction
was presented to his mind--the man had doubtless observed that his
hands were soiled and had washed them in the dark, since anyone with
the "fine" hands described by the coroner would be almost certain to
keep them immaculate; but might, in the absence of a light, wash them
half clean only.

He was not disposed to attach a very great importance to the matter,
however, and only paused for a moment to recall a number of the various
"dirts" that resist an effort to remove them--printers' ink, acid
stains, axle grease, and greasy soot.

He shifted his line of questions abruptly.

"What did you discover about the dead man's relatives? The nephew who
came to claim the body?"

"Never saw him," said the coroner. "I couldn't hang around the corpse
all day. I'm the busiest man in Branchville--and I had to go down to
New York the day he come."

"Did you take possession of any property that deceased might have had
at his room in Hickwood?"

"Sure," said Pike. "Half a dozen collars, and some socks, a few old
letters, and a box almost full of cigars."

"If these things are here in your office," said Garrison, rising, "I
should like to look them over."

"You bet, I can put my hand on anything in my business in a minute,"
boasted Mr. Pike. He rose and crossed the room to a desk with a large,
deep drawer, which he opened with a key.

The dead man's possessions were few, indeed. The three cigars which
his pocket had disgorged were lying near a little pile of money.
Garrison noted at once that the labels on two were counterparts of the
one on the broken cigar now reposing in his pocket. He opened the box
beneath his hand. The cigars inside were all precisely like the
others. Five only had ever been removed, of which four were accounted
for already. The other had doubtless been smoked.

On the even row o