ir of shears which the other evidently had
been using in placing the clippings in the big book. He put them down on
a table in one corner near Bristow's typewriter.

"Still figuring 'em out, I see," he said grimly.

He referred to Bristow's habit of reading murder mysteries in the
newspapers and working them out to satisfactory solutions. That was
Bristow's way of amusing himself while set down in Furmville for the long
struggle to overcome the tuberculosis with which he was afflicted. In
fact, as a result of this recreation, he had become known to Greenleaf,
who had visited him several times.

He had rendered the captain considerable assistance in a minor case
shortly after his arrival in the town, and Greenleaf was really amazed by
the correctness of the lame man's solutions of most of the murder cases
chronicled. He knew that Bristow had been right on an average of nine
times out of ten, often clearing up the affairs on paper many days or
even weeks ahead of the authorities in various parts of the country.

Bristow had his records in his scrapbooks to prove his contentions. Under
each clipping descriptive of a baffling murder he had written a brief
outline of his solving of the case and dated it, following this with the
date of the correct or incorrect solutions by the authorities.

"But now," the chief added, as they sat down before the open fire, which
earlier had fought against the chill of the cool May morning, "you can
work one out right on the ground. And I'll be mighty glad to have your
help--if you will help."

"Of course," said Bristow. "I'll be more than glad to make any
suggestions I can."

The chief went out on the porch and called across the yard of No. 7 to
one of his men on guard at No. 5:

"Simpson, when a young man--name's Morley--gets there and asks for me,
tell him to come up here to Number Nine."

He came back and referred to Bristow's offer of help:

"For instance?"

"Well," Bristow answered, "as we see it now, there are three
possibilities: Campbell, or Morley, or some unknown man or woman,
coloured or white, bent on robbery."

"So far, though, we haven't found any signs of robbery."

"I have."

"What were they?"

"The middle, third and little fingers of Mrs. Withers' left hand were
scratched, badly scratched, as if rings had been pulled from them by
force. And there was a deep line on the back of her neck. It looked black
just now, but it was red when it was inflicted. It was