She turned to a card-tray, and rapidly running over the bits of pasteboard, she selected three or four.

“Here they are,” she exclaimed, “all here together.  I mean all the cards that were given me on that particular evening.  And here is the name I couldn’t think of.  It is Mrs. Cunningham.  I remember distinctly that she carried a gold bag, and no one else in the party did, for we were admiring it.  And here is her address on the card; Marathon Park, New Jersey.”

I almost fainted, myself, with the suddenness of the discovery.  Had I really found the name and address of the owner of the gold bag?  Of course there might be a slip yet, but the evidence seemed clear that Mrs. Cunningham, of Marathon Park, owned the bag that had been the subject of so much speculation.

I had no idea where Marathon Park might be, but that was a mere detail.  I thanked Mrs. Purvis sincerely for the help she had given me, and I was glad I had not told her that her casual acquaintance was perhaps implicated in a murder mystery.

I made my adieux and returned at once to West Sedgwick.

As he had promised, Parmalee met me at the station, and I told him the whole story, for I thought him entitled to the information at once.

“Why, man alive!” he exclaimed, “Marathon Park is the very next station to West Sedgwick!”

“So it is!” I said; “I knew I had a hazy idea of having seen the name, but the trains I have taken to and from New York have been expresses, which didn’t stop there, and I paid no attention to it.”

“It’s a small park,” went on Parmalee, “of swagger residences; very exclusive and reserved, you know.  You’ve certainly unearthed startling news, but I can’t help thinking that it will be a wild goose chase that leads us to look for our criminal in Marathon Park!”

“What do you think we’d better do?” said I.  “Go to see Mrs. Cunningham?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that,” said Parmalee, who had a sort of plebeian hesitancy at the thought of intruding upon aristocratic strangers.  “Suppose you write her a letter and just ask her if she has lost her bag.”

“All right,” I conceded, for truth to tell, I greatly preferred to stay in West Sedgwick than to go out of it, for I had always the undefined hope of seeing Florence Lloyd.

So I wrote a letter, not exactly curt, but strictly formal, asking Mrs. Cunningham if she had recently lost a gold-mesh bag, containing her gloves and handkerchief.

Then Parmalee and I agreed to keep the matter a secret until we should get a reply to this, for we concluded there was no use in stirring up public curiosity on the matter until we knew ourselves that we were on the right trail.

XVII

THE OWNER OF THE GOLD BAG

The next day I received a letter addressed in modish, angular penmanship, which, before I opened it, I felt sure had come from Mrs. Cunningham.  It ran as follows