“Yes.”

“And the address?”

The name of a small town in the Catskills was given him.

“Thank you.  Very good work.”  And Mr. Gryce hung up the receiver.  Then he stood thinking.

“Elvira Brown!  A very fair alias—­that is, the Brown end.  But what am I to think of Elvira?  And what am I to think of the Brown, now that I remember that the woman who has chosen to hide her identity under another name is a Frenchwoman.  Something queer!  Let me see if I can call up the station-master at the place she’s gone.”

A long-distance connection proving practicable, he found himself after a little while in communication with the man he wanted.

“I’m Gryce, of the New York police.  A woman in whom we’re greatly interested has just entered your town under the name of Elvira Brown.”

"Elvira Brown!"

Mr. Gryce was startled at the tone in which this was repeated, even making due allowance for the medium through which it came.

“Yes.  What’s there strange about that?”

“Only this:  That’s the name of a woman who has lived in these mountains for forty years, and who died here three days ago.  To-day we’re going to bury her.”

This was a blow to the detective’s expectations.  What awful mistake had he made?  Or had it been made by the man detailed to steal the name from the package—­or by the woman in the shop, or by all these combined?  He could not stop to ask; but he caught at the first loose end which presented itself.

“Well, it isn’t she we’re after, that’s certain.  The one we want is middle-aged, and plain in looks and dress.  If she came into your town, it was yesterday or possibly the night before.  You wouldn’t be apt to notice her, unless your attention was caught by her lameness.  Do you remember any such person?”

“No, and I don’t think anyone like that passed through my station.  We’re off the main road, and our travelers are few.  I would have noticed the arrival of a woman like that.”

Mr. Gryce, with an exclamation of chagrin, hung up the receiver.  He felt completely balked.

But old as he was, he still had some of the tenacity of youth.  He was not willing to accept defeat without one more effort.  Going downtown as usual, he wandered again into the little dry-goods shop to see if the package had been sent.

Yes, it had gone, but the expressman had had some trouble with a drunken man who actually took the package out of his hands and didn’t give it back without a squabble.  Strange how men can drink till they can’t see, and so early in the morning, at that!

Mr. Gryce’s vigorous hunch dismissed summarily this expression of opinion as altogether feminine.  But he had something to say about the package itself, which kept the good woman waiting, though a customer or two demanded her attention.

“You’ll think me a fussy old man,” said he, “but I’ve worried about that package all night.  She needs a new dress so much, and I’m afraid you didn’t have the right address.  I remember it now—­it was—­was——­”