“Nothing else.”

“What happened after you came back?”

“We entered the ladies’ department.  No one was there.  A woman’s automobile-coat was thrown over a chair in a heap.  Mr. Bruce picked it up.  ‘It’s Mrs. Parker’s,’ he said.  He wrapped it up hastily, and rang for a messenger.”

“Where did he send it?”

“To Mrs. Parker, I suppose.  I didn’t hear the address.”

We next went over the whole suite of offices, conducted by Mr. Downey.  I noted how carefully Kennedy looked into the directors’ room through the open door from the ladies’ department.  He stood at such an angle that had he been the assassin he could scarcely have been seen except by those sitting immediately next Mr. Parker at the directors’ table.  The street windows were directly in front of him, and back of him was the chair on which the motor-coat had been found.

In Parker’s own office we spent some time, as well as in Bruce’s.  Kennedy made a search for the note, but finding nothing in either office, turned out the contents of Bruce’s scrap-basket.  There didn’t seem to be anything in it to interest him, however, even after he had pieced several torn bits of scraps together with much difficulty, and he was about to turn the papers back again, when he noticed something sticking to the side of the basket.  It looked like a mass of wet paper, and that was precisely what it was.

“That’s queer,” said Kennedy, picking it loose.  Then he wrapped it up carefully and put it in his pocket.  “Inspector, can you lend me one of your men for a couple of days?” he asked, as we were preparing to leave.  “I shall want to send him out of town to-night, and shall probably need his services when he gets back.”

“Very well.  Riley will be just the fellow.  We’ll go back to headquarters, and I’ll put him under your orders.”

It was not until late in the following day that I saw Kennedy again.  It had been a busy day on the Star.  We had gone to work that morning expecting to see the financial heavens fall.  But just about five minutes to ten, before the Stock Exchange opened, the news came in over the wire from our financial man on Broad Street:  “The System has forced James Bruce, partner of Kerr Parker, the dead banker, to sell his railroad, steamship, and rubber holdings to it.  On this condition it promises unlimited support to the market.”

“Forced!” muttered the managing editor, as he waited on the office ’phone to get the, composing-room, so as to hurry up the few lines in red ink on the first page and beat our rivals on the streets with the first extras.  “Why, he’s been working to bring that about for the past two weeks.  What that System doesn’t control isn’t worth having—­it edits the news before our men get it, and as for grist for the divorce courts, and tragedies, well—­Hello, Jenkins, yes, a special extra.  Change the big heads—­copy is on the way up—­rush it.”