“Yes, Gryce?”

“She was in a desperate hurry, or she wouldn’t have left the trunk open or all those dainty things lying about.  Frenchwomen are methodical and very careful of their belongings.  One other thing I noted.  There was a loose nail in the lock of the trunk.  Sticking to this nail was a raveling of brown wool.  Here it is, sir.  The woman—­Madame Duclos—­wore a dress of brown serge.  If my calculations are not wrong and we succeed in getting a glimpse of that dress, we shall find a tear in the skirt—­and what is more, one very near the hem.”

“Made to-day?”

“Yes—­another token of haste.  She probably jerked at the skirt when she found herself caught.  She could not have been herself to have done this—­for which we may be glad.”

“You mean that by this thoughtless action she has left a clue in our hands?”

“That and something more.  That tear in her decent skirt will bother her.  She will either make an immediate attempt to mend it, or else do the other obvious thing—­buy a new one.  In either case it gives us something by which to trace her.  I have put Sweetwater on that job.  He never tires, never wearies, never lets go.  No report in yet from the terminals?”

“Not a word.  But she will not get far.  Sooner or later we shall find her if she does not come forward herself after reading the evening papers.”

“She will never come forward.”

“I am not so sure.  Something not a little peculiar happened at the museum after you left.  We had Reynolds up, and he made a most careful examination of that bow for finger-prints.  He did not find any.  But fortune favored us in another way almost as good.”

“Now you interest me.”

“We had brought the bow into the Curator’s office, and it lay on the long table in the middle of the room.  I had been looking it over (this was after Reynolds had gone, of course) and had already noted a certain defect in it, when on chancing to look up, my eyes fell on a mirror hanging in a closet the door of which stood wide open.  A face was visible in it—­a very white face which altered under my scrutiny into a semblance more natural.  It was that of Correy—­you remember Correy, one of the assistants, and an honest fellow enough, but more troubled at this moment than I had ever seen him.  What could have happened?

“Wheeling quickly about, I caught him just as he started to go.  He had openly declared that he did not know this bow; but it was evident that he did, and I did not hesitate to say so.  Taken unawares, he could not hide his distress, which he proceeded to explain thus:  He did remember the bow, now that he had the opportunity of seeing it closer.  He pointed to the nick I had myself noticed and said that owing to this defect the bow had been cast aside, and the last time he had handled it——­Here he caught his breath and stopped.  Another memory had evidently returned to embarrass him.”