“The only one,” echoed the lady, catching perhaps the slight rising sound of query in his voice.

“I will trouble you no further.”  So said the old detective, thoughtfully.  “Sweetwater, help me out of this.”  His eye was dull and his manner betrayed exhaustion.  But vigour returned to him before he had well reached the door, and he showed some of his old spirit as he thanked Miss Clarke and turned to take the elevator.

“But one possibility remains,” he confided to Sweetwater, as they stood waiting at the elevator door.  “Miss Challoner died from a stab.  The next minute she was in this lady’s arms.  No weapon protruded from the wound, nor was any found on or near her in the mezzanine.  What follows?  She struck the blow herself, and the strength of purpose which led her to do this, gave her the additional force to pull the weapon out and fling it from her.  It did not fall upon the floor around her; therefore, it flew through one of those openings into the lobby, and there it either will be, or has been found.”

It was this statement, otherwise worded, which gave me my triumph over George.

V

THE RED CLOAK

“What results?  Speak up, Sweetwater.”

“None.  Every man, woman and boy connected with the hotel has been questioned; many of them routed out of their beds for the purpose, but not one of them picked up anything from the floor of the lobby, or knows of any one who did.”

“There now remain the guests.”

“And after them—­(pardon me, Mr. Gryce) the general public which rushed in rather promiscuously last night.”

“I know it; it’s a task, but it must be carried through.  Put up bulletins, publish your wants in the papers;—­do anything, only gain your end.”

A bulletin was put up.

Some hours later, Sweetwater re-entered the room, and, approaching Mr. Gryce with a smile, blurted out: 

“The bulletin is a great go.  I think—­of course, I cannot be sure —­that it’s going to do the business.  I’ve watched every one who stopped to read it.  Many showed interest and many, emotion; she seems to have had a troop of friends.  But embarrassment! only one showed that.  I thought you would like to know.”

“Embarrassment?  Humph! a man?”

“No, a woman; a lady, sir; one of the transients.  I found out in a jiffy all they could tell me about her.”

“A woman!  We didn’t expect that.  Where is she?  Still in the lobby?”

“No, sir.  She took the elevator while I was talking with the clerk.”

“There’s nothing in it.  You mistook her expression.”

“I don’t think so.  I had noticed her when she first came into the lobby.  She was talking to her daughter who was with her, and looked natural and happy.  But no sooner had she seen and read that bulletin, than the blood shot up into her face and her manner became furtive and hasty.  There was no mistaking the difference, sir.  Almost before I could point her out, she had seized her daughter by the arm and hurried her towards the elevator.  I wanted to follow her, but you may prefer to make your own inquiries.  Her room is on the seventh floor, number 712, and her name is Watkins.  Mrs. Horace Watkins of Nashville.”