“How did you know my initials really were H. M. G.?” asked Mr. Greene. “The porter at the Denton had seen them ‘Henry M. Gillespie’s’ suitcase. So I sent out loudly printed call to all hotel clerks for information about a troublesome H. M. G.” He handed the “OH, YOU HOTEL MEN” advertisement to the little group. “Plenty of replies came. You have, if I may say it without offense, Mr. Greene, an unfortunate reputation among hotel proprietors. Small wonder that you use an alias. From the Hotel Carpathia in Boston I got a response more valuable than I had dared to hope. An H. M. G. guest—H. Morton Garson, of Pillston, Pennsylvania (Mr. Greene nodded)—had wrecked his room and left behind him this souvenir.” Leaning over, Jones pulled, clinking from the scrap-basket, a fine steel chain. It was endless and some twelve feet in total length, and had two small loops, about a foot apart. Mrs. Hale and Kirby stared at it in speechless surprise. “Yes, that is mine,” said Mr. Greene with composure. “I left it because it had ceased to be serviceable to me.” “Ah! That’s very interesting,” said Average Jones with a keen glance. “Of course when I examined it and found no locks, I guessed that it was a trick chain, and that there were invisible springs in the wrist loops.” “But why should any one chain Mr. Greene to his bed with a trick chain?” questioned Mrs. Hale, whose mind had been working swiftly. “He chained himself,” explained Jones, “for excellent reasons. As there is no regular trade in these things, I figured that he probably bought it from some juggler whose performance had given him the idea. So,” continued Jones, producing a specimen of his advertisements in the theatrical publications, “I set out to find what professional had sold a ‘prop’, to an amateur. I found the sale had been made at Marsfield, Ohio, late in November of last year, by a ‘Slippery Sam,’ termed ‘The Elusive Edwardes.’ On November twenty-eighth of last year Mr. Harvey M. Greene, of Richmond, Virginia, was registered at the principal, in fact the only decent hotel, at Barsfield. I wrote to him and here he is.” “Yes; but where is my necklace?” cried Mrs. Hale. “On my word of honor, madam, I know nothing of your necklace,” asserted Greene, with a painful contraction of his features. “If this gentleman can throw any more light—” “I think I can,” said Average Jones. “Do you remember anything of that night’s events after you broke off the bedpost and left your room—the meeting with a guest who questioned you in the hall, for example?” “Nothing. Not a thing until I awoke and found myself on the fire-escape.” “Awoke?” cried Kirby. “Were you asleep all the time?”