“It’s the Glenargan office building, just opened, Mr. Jones,” volunteered the manager. Average Jones turned again to the window, closed it and fastened his handkerchief in the catch. “Leave that there,” he directed the manager. “Don’t let any one into this room. I’m off.” Stopping to telephone, Average Jones ascertained that there were no vacant offices on the tenth floor, south side of the Glenargan apartment building, facing the Nederstrom Hotel. The last one had been let two weeks before to—this he ascertained by judicious questioning—a dark, foreign gentleman who was an expert on rugs. Well satisfied, the investigator crossed over to the skyscraper across from the Palatia. There he demanded of the superintendent a single office on the third floor, facing north. He was taken to a clean and vacant room. One glance out of the window showed him his handkerchief, not opposite, but well to the west. “Too near Fifth Avenue,” he said. “I don’t like the roar of the traffic.” “There’s one other room on this floor, farther along,” said the superintendent, “but it isn’t in order. Mr. Perkins’ time isn’t up till day after tomorrow, and his things are there yet. He told the janitor, though, that he was leaving town and wouldn’t bother to take away the things. They aren’t worth much. Here’s the place.” They entered the office. In it were only a desk, two chairs and a scrap basket. The basket was crammed with newspapers. One of them was the _Hotel Register_. Average Jones found Telfik Bey’s name, as he had expected, in its roster. “I’ll give fifty dollars for the furniture as it stands.” “Glad to get it,” was the prompt response. “Will you want anything else, now?” “Yes. Send the janitor here.” That worthy, upon receipt of a considerable benefaction, expressed himself ready to serve the new tenant to the best of his ability. “Do you know when Mr. Perkins left the building?” “Yes, sir. This morning, early.” “This morning! Sure it wasn’t yesterday?” “Am I sure? Didn’t I help him to the street-car and hand him his little package? That sick he was he couldn’t hardly walk alone.” Average Jones pondered a moment. “Do you think he could have passed the night here?” “I know he did,” was the prompt response. “The scrubwoman heard him when she came this morning.” “Heard him?” “Yes’ sir. Sobbing, like.” The nerves of Average Jones gave a sharp “kickback,” like a mis-cranked motor-car. His trend of thought had suddenly been reversed. The devious and scientific slayer of Telfik Bey in tears? It seemed completely out of the picture.