“How do you know he did?” I questioned, in some amusement.

“Because I saw him do it!” she answered, and fell back into her chair again, her hands fumbling feebly at her bag.

She was evidently on the verge of collapse, and I hastened to get her a glass of water, but when I returned with it, she had her smelling bottle to her nose and was almost herself again.  She waved the glass away impatiently.

“I shall be all right in a moment,” she murmured, and I sat down again and watched her, wondering if there had ever been any insanity in Mrs. Magnus’ family.

I suppose my thought must have been reflected in my face, for Mrs. Magnus flushed angrily as she caught my eye.

“No, I’m not mad,” she said “though I feared last night that I would be.  What I have told you is perfectly true.  I saw my husband write that note three nights ago—­it is not the only one.  He can have no peace until that money is paid—­neither can I. You must not fail me.”

“I will not,” I assured her.  “I will bring it to you myself.”

“Thank you,” she said, and arose to go.  “I shall want you to be present to-night.”

“I shall be glad to help you in any way I can.”

“Thank you,” she said again, and I opened the door for her and watched her for a moment as she crossed the outer office.  Then I closed the door and went back to my desk.

The note was lying where I had dropped it, and I picked it up and examined it again.  Then I got out some samples of Magnus’ writing and compared them with the note, but so far as I could tell the hands were the same.  Besides, she had said she had seen her husband write it.

This gave me pause.  How could she have seen him?  How had he appeared to her?  Perhaps she had written it herself, in her sleep, under some sort of self-hypnosis—­but, in that case, would the handwriting have been her husband’s?  Or did hypnosis involve that, too?  I ended by turning to the phone and calling for 3100 Spring.  That, as you may know, is for 300 Mulberry Street; and 300 Mulberry Street is the drab building in which the police system of New York has its headquarters—­or did have until the other day.

“Is Jim Godfrey there?” I asked.

“I’ll see; hold the line.”

A moment later I heard Godfrey’s voice ask:  “Hello?  What is it?”

“It’s Lester, Godfrey,” I said.  “I wish you would run over to the office and see me this morning.”

“All right,” he replied; “I’ll be over right away.”

I hung up the receiver with a sigh of relief.  If anybody could see through the puzzle, I knew that Godfrey could.  I had met him first in connection with the Holladay case, when he had deserted the force temporarily to accept a place as star reporter on the yellowest of the dailies; but he had resigned that position in a moment of pique, and the department had promptly gobbled him up again.

Fifteen minutes later his card was brought in to me, and I had him shown in at once.