All this Colonel Ashley had taken into consideration before he sent the telegram.  And, having done that, and having had a talk with Darcy at the jail, as well as a consultation with the lawyer, having visited Harry King and seen Singa Phut, the detective paid another visit to the jewelry shop.

“And what can I do for you to-day, Colonel?” asked Mr. Kettridge, who, by this time, had the business running smoothly again.  “Have you gotten any further into the mystery?”

“Not as far as I would like to get.  I’m going to browse about here a bit, if you have no objection.”

“Not at all.  Make yourself at home.”

“I will.  First, I’d like to see that statue—­the one of the hunter, with which it is supposed Mrs. Darcy was struck.”

“Oh, that is at the prosecutor’s office—­that and Harry King’s unfortunate paper knife.”

“So they are.  I had forgotten.  Well, I’ll look about a bit then.  Don’t pay any attention to me.  I’ll go and come as I please.”

And so he went, seemingly rather idly about the jewelry store, looking and listening.

It was not until the third day of his surveillance, during which passage of time he had waited anxiously for a message from New York without getting it, that the colonel felt his patience was about to be rewarded.  The detective was a fisherman in more ways than one.

Trade had been rather brisk in the shop—­possibly because of gruesome curiosity—­when, one afternoon, a man entered who seemed to know several in the place.  Yet he did not talk with them, beyond a mere passing of the time of day, but went about nervously from showcase to counter and repeated the journey.  When Mr. Kettridge asked him at what he desired to look he replied there was nothing in particular—­that he had in mind a gift, but, as yet, had decided on nothing.

“Look about as you please,” was the courteous invitation he received, and the man availed himself of it.

Of medium build, yet with the appearance of having lived more in the open than does the average man, his face had, yet, a strange pallor not in keeping with his robust frame.  And his manner was certainly nervous.

“Now what,” mused the colonel to himself, “is he fishing for?”

That day there was more than the usual number of people in the store—­many of them undoubtedly curiosity seekers, who came into price certain articles ostensibly, but who, really, wanted to stare at the place where the bloodstains had been scrubbed away.

And at this spot the robust man stared longer than did some of the others, the colonel thought.  Did he hope that some spirit of the poor, murdered woman might still be lingering there, to whisper to him what he sought to learn?

“Who is that man?” asked Colonel Ashley of Mr. Kettridge, who had often come to the shop during the holiday seasons to help Mrs. Darcy.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Grafton.”