The amateur detective replaced the letters carefully; he closed and locked the trunk; then he thanked his companions.

“If I had a dollar in the world,” said he, “I’d ask you boys to have a drink, but I’m broke.”  Then he began to laugh foolishly, hysterically, until the raw-boned man clapped him on the back again.

“Straighten up, lad.  Ye’ve been strained a bit too hard.  I’ll telephone for the cops.”

In an instant Paul was himself.  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” he cried.  “Why, man, you’ll spoil the whole thing.  I’ve worked this out alone, and if the police hear of it they’ll notify all the papers and I’ll have no story.  Burns won’t give me that job, and I’ll be hungry again.”

“True!  I forgot that fat-headed divil of an editor.  Well, you say the word and nobody won’t know nothin’ from us.  Hey, boys?”

“Sure not,” the other men agreed.  This lad was one of their kind; he was up against it and fighting for his own, therefore they knew how to sympathize.  But Paul had been seized with terror lest his story might get away from him, therefore he bade them a hasty good-by and sped up-town.  His feet could not carry him swiftly enough.

Burns greeted him sourly when he burst into the editorial sanctum.  It was not yet twenty-four hours since he had sent this fellow away with instructions not to return.

“Are you back again?” he snarled.  “I heard about your assaulting Wells down at the City Hall.  Don’t try it on me or I’ll have you pinched.”

Paul laughed lightly.  “I don’t have to fight for my rights any more.”

“Indeed!  What are you grinning about?  Have you found who that girl is?”

“I have.”

“What?” Burns’s jaw dropped limply; he leaned forward in his chair.

“Yes, sir!  I’ve identified her.”

The fat man was at first incredulous, then suspicious.  “Don’t try any tricks on me,” he cried, warningly.  “Don’t try to put anything over—­”

“Her name is Mabel Wilkes.  She is the daughter of Captain Wilkes, of Highland, Ontario.  She was a country dressmaker and lived with her people at that place.  Her trunk is down at the Grand Trunk depot with the rest of her clothes in it, together with the mate to the mitten she had when she killed herself.  I went through the trunk with the baggage-master, name Corrigan.  Here’s the key which I got from her purse at the coroner’s office.”

Burns fixed his round eyes upon the key, then he shifted them slowly to Anderson’s face.  “Why—­why—­this is amazing!  I—­I—­” He cleared his throat nervously.  “How did you discover all this?  Who told you?”

“Nobody told me.  I reasoned it out.”

“But how—­Good Lord!  Am I dreaming?”

“I’m a good newspaper man.  I’ve been telling you that every day.  Maybe you’ll believe me now.”

Burns made no reply.  Instead, he pushed a button and Wells, of the City Hall squad, entered, pausing abruptly at sight of Anderson.  Giving the latter no time for words, Mr. Burns issued his instructions.  On the instant he was the trained newspaper man again, cheating the clock dial and trimming minutes:  his words were sharp and decisive.