When his affairs came to be looked into, it was found that he was practically insolvent, his stock of goods and personal property barely—­but nearly enough to free him from censure—­covering his liabilities.  Following came the disclosure that he had been entrusted with the sum of twenty thousand dollars by a former upper servant in the Morin family, one Madame Tibault, which she had received as a legacy from relatives in France.

The most searching scrutiny by friends and the legal authorities failed to reveal the disposition of the money.  It had vanished, and left no trace.  Some weeks before his death, Mr. Morin had drawn the entire amount, in gold coin, from the bank where it had been placed while he looked about (he told Madame Tibault) for a safe investment.  Therefore, Mr. Morin’s memory seemed doomed to bear the cloud of dishonesty, while madame was, of course, disconsolate.

Then it was that Robbins and Dumars, representing their respective journals, began one of those pertinacious private investigations which, of late years, the press has adopted as a means to glory and the satisfaction of public curiosity.

“Cherchez la femme,” said Dumars.

“That’s the ticket!” agreed Robbins.  “All roads lead to the eternal feminine.  We will find the woman.”

They exhausted the knowledge of the staff of Mr. Morin’s hotel, from the bell-boy down to the proprietor.  They gently, but inflexibly, pumped the family of the deceased as far as his cousins twice removed.  They artfully sounded the employees of the late jeweller, and dogged his customers for information concerning his habits.  Like bloodhounds they traced every step of the supposed defaulter, as nearly as might be, for years along the limited and monotonous paths he had trodden.

At the end of their labours, Mr. Morin stood, an immaculate man.  Not one weakness that might be served up as a criminal tendency, not one deviation from the path of rectitude, not even a hint of a predilection for the opposite sex, was found to be placed in his debit.  His life had been as regular and austere as a monk’s; his habits, simple and unconcealed.  Generous, charitable, and a model in propriety, was the verdict of all who knew him.

“What, now?” asked Robbins, fingering his empty notebook.

“Cherchez la femme,” said Dumars, lighting a cigarette.  “Try Lady Bellairs.”

This piece of femininity was the race-track favourite of the season.  Being feminine, she was erratic in her gaits, and there were a few heavy losers about town who had believed she could be true.  The reporters applied for information.

Mr. Morin?  Certainly not.  He was never even a spectator at the races.  Not that kind of a man.  Surprised the gentlemen should ask.

“Shall we throw it up?” suggested Robbins, “and let the puzzle department have a try?”

“Cherchez la femme,” hummed Dumars, reaching for a match.  “Try the Little Sisters of What-d’-you-call-’em.”