“I can’t bother with that now,” he snarled.  “The railroad company is responsible for transportation, not for clothes, jewelry and morals.  If people want to be stabbed and robbed in the company’s cars, it’s their affair.  Why didn’t you sleep in your clothes?  I do.”

I took an angry step forward.  Then somebody touched my arm, and I unclenched my fist.  I could understand the conductor’s position, and beside, in the law, I had been guilty myself of contributory negligence.

“I’m not trying to make you responsible,” I protested as amiably as I could, “and I believe the clothes the thief left are as good as my own.  They are certainly newer.  But my valise contained valuable papers and it is to your interest as well as mine to find the man who stole it.”

“Why, of course,” the conductor said shrewdly.  “Find the man who skipped out with this gentleman’s clothes, and you’ve probably got the murderer.”

“I went to bed in lower nine,” I said, my mind full again of my lost papers, “and I wakened in number seven.  I was up in the night prowling around, as I was unable to sleep, and I must have gone back to the wrong berth.  Anyhow, until the porter wakened me this morning I knew nothing of my mistake.  In the interval the thief—­murderer, too, perhaps—­must have come back, discovered my error, and taken advantage of it to further his escape.”

The inquisitive man looked at me from between narrowed eyelids, ferret-like.

“Did any one on the train suspect you of having valuable papers?” he inquired.  The crowd was listening intently.

“No one,” I answered promptly and positively.  The doctor was investigating the murdered man’s effects.  The pockets of his trousers contained the usual miscellany of keys and small change, while in his hip pocket was found a small pearl-handled revolver of the type women usually keep around.  A gold watch with a Masonic charm had slid down between the mattress and the window, while a showy diamond stud was still fastened in the bosom of his shirt.  Taken as a whole, the personal belongings were those of a man of some means, but without any particular degree of breeding.  The doctor heaped them together.

“Either robbery was not the motive,” he reflected, “or the thief overlooked these things in his hurry.”

The latter hypothesis seemed the more tenable, when, after a thorough search, we found no pocketbook and less than a dollar in small change.

The suit-case gave no clue.  It contained one empty leather-covered flask and a pint bottle, also empty, a change of linen and some collars with the laundry mark, S. H. In the leather tag on the handle was a card with the name Simon Harrington, Pittsburg.  The conductor sat down on my unmade berth, across, and made an entry of the name and address.  Then, on an old envelope, he wrote a few words and gave it to the porter, who disappeared.

“I guess that’s all I can do,” he said.  “I’ve had enough trouble this trip to last for a year.  They don’t need a conductor on these trains any more; what they ought to have is a sheriff and a posse.”