The two men ate heartily and in silence.  It was not till the plates were scraped that either spoke.  With the last sip of the soothing beverage Brencherly closed his eyes peacefully.

“Old man,” he said, “this night’s work is the best luck I’ve ever had.  Now, tell me, did the lady say anything at any time? or did she remain as she is?”

“She didn’t say much.  Grumbled a little at being moved around; in fact, I thought she was coming out of it for a minute when we first got her in here.  Then she straightened out for another lap of sleep.  Here’s her kit.”

He rose as he spoke, and took from the mantel the package she had clung to during all her enforced journey.  He untied the parcel, and both men bent over its meager contents.  Though Brencherly had seen them under the wavering arc lights of Washington Square, he now gave each article the closest scrutiny.  Nothing offered any clew, except the wallet.  That, worn as it was, showed its costly texture, and the marks of careful mountings.  It was unmistakably a man’s wallet, and its flexibility denoted constant use.  Brencherly set it on one side.

“Anything else?” he asked.

The other nodded.  He had the most important find in reserve.

“These,” he said, and drew from his pocket a bunch of newspaper clippings.  He laid each one on the table.  “Now, what do you think of that?” His lean, cadaverous face took on a look of satisfied cunning.  If his colleague had not chosen to take him into his confidence, he could show him that he was quite capable of drawing his own inferences and making his own conclusions.  He sat back and nonchalantly lit a cigarette.

There were at least twenty cuttings, of all sizes, from a half page from a Sunday supplement to a couple of lines from a financial column.  But all bore the name of Victor Mahr more or less conspicuously displayed.  Two scraps showed conclusively that they had been cherished and handled more than all the others.  One was a sketch of the millionaire’s country estate; the other, a reproduction from a photograph of his old-fashioned and imposing city residence.

“H’m!” said Brencherly.  “It’s pretty clear that she had a reason for occupying that park bench, hey?  And she certainly has patronized the news bureau, or been a patient collector herself.  See that?” He pushed forward the largest of the clippings.  “That’s three years old.  I remember when that came out.  It was after Teddy’s sensational playing at the Yale-Harvard game.  They had the limelight well turned on then, you remember.  And that”—­he smoothed another slip—­“that announcement of his purchase of ‘Allanbrae’ is at least five years old.  She’s been treasuring all this for a long time.  Where did you find them?”

“When I put her on the bed,” Long replied, “her collar seemed to be choking her, so I loosened it, and a button or two.  There was a pink string around her throat and a little old chamois bag—­like you might put a turnip-watch in.  I took it in here and found—­that stuff—­what do you think?”