Prom the rooming-house he went directly to the Morgue, and for a second time examined the body, confining his attention particularly to the hands.  The right one showed nothing upon which to found a theory, save that it was, indeed, a capable hand with smooth skin and well-tended nails; but on examining the left Paul noted a marked peculiarity.  Near the ends of the thumb and the first finger the skin was roughened, abrased; there were numerous tiny black spots beneath the skin, which, upon careful scrutiny, he discovered to be microscopic blood-blisters.

For a long time he puzzled over this phenomenon which had escaped all previous observers, but to save him he could invent no explanation for it.  He repaired finally to the office of the attendant and asked for the girl’s clothes, receiving permission to examine a small bundle.

“Where’s the rest?” he demanded.

“That’s all she had,” said the man.

“No baggage at all?”

“Not a thing but what she stood up in.  The coroner has her jewelry and things of that sort.”

Anderson searched the contents of the bundle with the utmost care, but found no mark of any sort.  The garments, although inexpensive, were beautifully neat and clean, and they displayed the most marvelous examples of needlework he had ever seen.  Among the effects was a plush muff, out of which, as he picked it up, fell a pair of little knitted mittens—­or was there a pair?  Finding but the one, he shook the muff again, then looked through the other things.

“Where’s the other mitten?” he inquired.

“There ’ain’t been but the one,” the attendant told him.

“Are you sure?”

“See here, do you think I’m trying to hold out a yarn mitten on you?  I say there ’ain’t been but the one.  I was here when she came, and I know.”

Discouraged by the paucity of clues which this place offered, Anderson went next to the coroner’s office.

The City Hall newspaper squad had desks in this place, but Paul paid no attention to them or to their occupants.  He went straight to the wicket and asked for the effects of the dead girl.

It appeared that Burns had told his practical joke broadcast, for the young man heard his name mentioned, and then some one behind him snickered.  He paid no attention, however, for the clerk had handed him a small leather bag or purse, together with a morphine-bottle, about the size and shape of an ordinary vaseline-bottle.  The bag was cheap and bore no maker’s name or mark.  Inside of it was a brooch, a ring, a silver chain, and a slip of paper.  Stuck to the bottom of the reticule was a small key.  Paul came near overlooking the last-named article, for it was well hidden in a fold near the corner.  Now a key to an unknown lock is not much to go on at best, therefore he gave his attention to the paper.  It was evidently a scrap torn from a sheet of wrapping-paper, and bore these figures in pencil: