Average Jones greeted his guests cordially. Their first questions to him were significant of the masculine and feminine differences in point of view. “Have you got the necklace?” cried Mrs. Hale. “Have you got the thief?” queried Kirby. “I haven’t got the necklace and I haven’t got the thief,” announced Average Jones; “but I think I’ve got the man who’s got the necklace.” “Did the thief hand it over to him?” demanded Kirby. “Are you conversant with the Baconian system of thought, which Old Chips used to preach to us at Hamilton?” countered Average Jones. “Forgotten it if I ever knew it,” returned Kirby. “So I infer from your repeated use of the word ‘thief.’ Bacon’s principle—an admirable principle in detective work—is that we should learn from things and not from the names of things. You are deluding yourself with a name. Because the law, which is always rigid and sometimes stupid, says that a man who takes that which does not belong to him is a thief, you’ve got your mind fixed on the name ‘thief,’ and the idea of theft. If I had gone off on that tack I shouldn’t have the interesting privilege of introducing to you Mr. Harvey M. Greene, who now sits in the outer room.” “H. M. G.,” said Kirby quickly. “Is it possible that that decent-looking old boy out there is the man who stole—” “It is _not_,” interrupted Average Jones with emphasis, “and I shall ask you, whatever may occur, to guard your speech from offensive expressions of that sort while he is here.” “All right, if you say so,” acquiesced the other. “But do you mind telling me how you figure out a man traveling under an alias and helping himself to other people’s property on any other basis than that he’s a thief?” “A, B, C,” replied Average Jones; “as thus: A—Thieves don’t wander about in dressing-gowns. B—Nor take necklaces and leave purses. C—Nor strip gems violently apart and scatter them like largess from fire-escapes. The rest of the alphabet I postpone. Now for Mr. Greene.” The man from the outer room entered and nervously acknowledged his introduction to the others. “Mr. Greene,” explained Jones, “has kindly consented to help clear up the events of the night of August sixth at the Hotel Denton and”—he paused for a moment and shifted his gaze to the newcomer’s narrow shoes—“and—er—the loss of—er—Mrs. Hale’s jeweled necklace.” The boots retracted sharply, as under the impulse of some sudden emotion; startled surprise, for example. “What?” cried Greene, in obvious amazement. “I don’t know anything about a necklace.” A twinkle of satisfaction appeared at the corners of Average Jones’ eyes. “That also is possible,” he admitted. “If you’ll permit the form of an examination; when you came to the Hotel Denton on August sixth, did you carry the same suitcase you now have with you, and similarly packed?” “Ye-es. As nearly as possible.” “Thank you. You were registered under the name of Henry M. Gillespie?”