They came into the library, and Hotchkiss wiped his collar until it gleamed.  McKnight was aggressively cheerful.

“Not pinched yet!” he exclaimed.  “What do you think of that for luck!  You always were a fortunate devil, Lawrence.”

“Yes,” I assented, with some bitterness, “I hardly know how to contain myself for joy sometimes.  I suppose you know”—­to Hotchkiss—­“that the police were here while we were at Cresson, and that they found the bag that I brought from the wreck?”

“Things are coming to a head,” he said thoughtfully “unless a little plan that I have in mind—­” he hesitated.

“I hope so; I am pretty nearly desperate,” I said doggedly.  “I’ve got a mental toothache, and the sooner it’s pulled the better.”

“Tut, tut,” said McKnight, “think of the disgrace to the firm if its senior member goes up for life, or—­” he twisted his handkerchief into a noose, and went through an elaborate pantomime.

“Although jail isn’t so bad, anyhow,” he finished, “there are fellows that get the habit and keep going back and going back.”  He looked at his watch, and I fancied his cheerfulness was strained.  Hotchkiss was nervously fumbling my book.

“Did you ever read The Purloined Letter, Mr. Blakeley?” he inquired.

“Probably, years ago,” I said.  “Poe, isn’t it?”

He was choked at my indifference.  “It is a masterpiece,” he said, with enthusiasm.  “I re-read it to-day.”

“And what happened?”

“Then I inspected the rooms in the house off Washington Circle.  I—­I made some discoveries, Mr. Blakeley.  For one thing, our man there is left-handed.”  He looked around for our approval.  “There was a small cushion on the dresser, and the scarf pins in it had been stuck in with the left hand.”

“Somebody may have twisted the cushion,” I objected, but he looked hurt, and I desisted.

“There is only one discrepancy,” he admitted, “but it troubles me.  According to Mrs. Carter, at the farmhouse, our man wore gaudy pajamas, while I found here only the most severely plain night-shirts.”

“Any buttons off?” McKnight inquired, looking again at his watch.

“The buttons were there,” the amateur detective answered gravely, “but the buttonhole next the top one was torn through.”

McKnight winked at me furtively.

“I am convinced of one thing,” Hotchkiss went on, clearing his throat, “the papers are not in that room.  Either he carries them with him, or he has sold them.”

A sound on the street made both my visitors listen sharply.  Whatever it was it passed on, however.  I was growing curious and the restraint was telling on McKnight.  He has no talent for secrecy.  In the interval we discussed the strange occurrence at Cresson, which lost nothing by Hotchkiss’ dry narration.

“And so,” he concluded, “the woman in the Baltimore hospital is the wife of Henry Sullivan and the daughter of the man he murdered.  No wonder he collapsed when he heard of the wreck.”