“Nothing, Miss Strange.  You are by nature, as well as by breeding, very far removed from everything of the kind.  But you will allow me to suggest that no crime is low-down which makes imperative demand upon the intellect and intuitive sense of its investigator.  Only the most delicate touch can feel and hold the thread I’ve just spoken of, and you have the most delicate touch I know.”

“Do not attempt to flatter me.  I have no fancy for handling befouled spider webs.  Besides, if I had—­if such elusive filaments fascinated me—­how could I, well-known in person and name, enter upon such a scene without prejudice to our mutual compact?”

“Miss Strange”—­she had reseated herself, but so far he had failed to follow her example (an ignoring of the subtle hint that her interest might yet be caught, which seemed to annoy her a trifle), “I should not even have suggested such a possibility had I not seen a way of introducing you there without risk to your position or mine.  Among the boxes piled upon Mrs. Doolittle’s table—­boxes of finished work, most of them addressed and ready for delivery—­was one on which could be seen the name of—­shall I mention it?”

“Not mine?  You don’t mean mine?  That would be too odd—­too ridiculously odd.  I should not understand a coincidence of that kind; no, I should not, notwithstanding the fact that I have lately sent out such work to be done.”

“Yet it was your name, very clearly and precisely written—­your whole name, Miss Strange.  I saw and read it myself.”

“But I gave the order to Madame Pirot on Fifth Avenue.  How came my things to be found in the house of this woman of whose horrible death we have been talking?”

“Did you suppose that Madame Pirot did such work with her own hands?—­or even had it done in her own establishment?  Mrs. Doolittle was universally employed.  She worked for a dozen firms.  You will find the biggest names on most of her packages.  But on this one—­I allude to the one addressed to you—­there was more to be seen than the name.  These words were written on it in another hand.  Send without opening.  This struck the police as suspicious; sufficiently so, at least, for them to desire your presence at the house as soon as you can make it convenient.”

“To open the box?”

“Exactly.”

The curl of Miss Strange’s disdainful lip was a sight to see.

“You wrote those words yourself,” she coolly observed.  “While someone’s back was turned, you whipped out your pencil and—­”

“Resorted to a very pardonable subterfuge highly conducive to the public’s good.  But never mind that.  Will you go?”

Miss Strange became suddenly demure.

“I suppose I must,” she grudgingly conceded.  “However obtained, a summons from the police cannot be ignored even by Peter Strange’s daughter.”

Another man might have displayed his triumph by smile or gesture; but this one had learned his role too well.  He simply said: