another, a bank robbery; a third, an escape from prison; a fourth was merely a marriage notice; a fifth told of a row in a sailors’ dive, and so on down the list They were about different people—friends of Thompson’s, perhaps; none of them had any connection with Tremaine; they told no story, furnished no clew, shed not a ray of light on the mystery—they were absolutely worthless.
I laid them down in despair. Yet if they were worthless, why had Miss Croydon taken them? Why had Tremaine sought for them? Were they mistaken, too? Had they imagined the clippings told a secret which in fact they did not tell? But perhaps they did tell it—perhaps I had overlooked it. They must have some connection with the tragedy? Why could I not perceive it?
I ran through them feverishly again, but with no better result. At last I laid them down and took up my pipe. I must submit them to a keener brain than mine. If Godfrey were only here…
I heard a step come down the hall, stop at my door. Someone knocked.
I hastily stuffed the clippings into my pocket and opened the door. But it was not Tremaine who stood there—it was Godfrey.
“Well, of all things!” I cried. “I was just wishing for you. Come in.”
With that quiet smile of his, he stepped over the threshold.
“That must mean you’ve got some new problem to solve,” he said, still smiling.
“I have; the worst yet; impenetrable as the counte-
