whatever.  The same was true of the pockets of the suit Siders had been wearing at the time of his death.  A man of any property or position at all in the world gathers about him so much of this kind of material that its absence shows premeditation.  The suit Siders had been wearing when he was killed was lying on the table in the room.  It was a plain grey business suit of good cut and material.  The body had been prepared for burial in a beseeming suit of black.  Muller made a careful examination of the clothes, and found only what the police reports showed him had already been found by the examination made by the local authorities.  Upon a second careful examination, however, he found that in one of the vest pockets there was a little extra pocket, like a change pocket, and in it he found a crumpled piece of paper.  He took it out, smoothed and read it.  It was a post office receipt for a registered letter.  The date was still clear, but the name of the person to whom the letter had been addressed was illegible.  The creases of the paper and a certain dampness, as if it had been inadvertently touched by a wet finger, had smeared the writing.  But the letter had been sent the day before the death of John Siders, and it had been registered from the main post office in G—.  This was sufficient for Muller.  Then he turned to the desk.  Here also there was nothing that could help him.  But a sudden thought, came to him, and he took up the blotting pad.  This, to his delight, was in the form of a book with a handsome embroidered cover.  It looked comparatively new and was, as Muller surmised, a gift from Miss Roemer to her betrothed.  But few of the pages had been used, and on two of them a closely written letter had been blotted several times, showing that there had been several sheets of the letter.  Muller held it up to the looking-glass, but the repeated blotting had blurred the writing to such an extent that it was impossible to decipher any but a few disconnected words, which gave no clue.  On a page further along on the blotter, however, he saw what appeared to be the impression of an address.  He held it up to the glass and gave a whistle of delight.  The words could be plainly deciphered here: 

Mr. Leo Pernburg,
“Frankfurt am main,
“MAINZER LANDSTRASSE.”

and above the name was a smear which, after a little study, could be deciphered as the written word “Registered.”

With this page of the blotter carefully tucked away in his pocketbook, Muller hurried to the post office, arriving just at closing hour.  He made himself known at once to the postmaster, and asked to be shown the records of registered letters sent on a certain date.  Here he found scheduled a letter addressed to Mr. Leo Pernburg, Frankfurt am Main, sent by John Siders, G—­, Josef Street 7.