“There was only one girl _below_, yes. And I heard the footsteps on the stairs. But there was also a pair of stairs leading to the floor above. The girl who snatched the packet may have gone up; I’m not sure.” Webster stared for a moment. “That’s so,” said he, slowly. “I’m beginning to get hold. There were two girls in the house; and you are inclined to suspect that it was the girl called Dallas who was with you in the office.” “Precisely.” “Why, then,” wonderingly, “there must have been three different designs upon the safe going forward at the same time.” Kenyon shrugged his shoulders and took another cigar. “I don’t think it possible for any merely human mind to get at the true inwardness of this strange game. At one moment the people engaged seem entirely in cahoots; in the next they are apparently making off-side plays of a decided personal nature. We have discussed their attitudes toward each other before, and the thing is beyond reason. Forrester is a friend to Dallas. He wishes her well, at any rate, as far as I can see. And yet he is a firm friend and stands high in the favor of Hong Yo, who would, I have no doubt, murder her in cold blood.” “I think I said some time since that the thing is a puzzle,” spoke Webster. “And I have had no reason to change my mind. But what do you propose to do next?” “I think a visit to Bellevue might have some results. Either of the two of my remaining namesakes might be able to talk to visitors by this time.” “Excellent.” A short time later they were engaged with the same youthful surgeon whom they had spoken with before. “I suppose you have heard of the fate of the man from Butte,” said he after he had greeted them. “He’s dead, is he not?” “Yes; fished out of the East River the other morning. And they found a new wound upon him--a knife thrust through the heart. It really is the most remarkable series of events that ever came under my notice. It would seem as though there was a conspiracy of some sort on foot; and the people behind it do not value human life very highly.” “I should say not,” answered Kenyon, dryly. “But how are the other patients?” “Number two, as I call the one hailing from West Point, is still in rather a bad way, but is recovering. The one from Saginaw left the hospital this afternoon.” “But he is still in New York?” eagerly. “Oh, yes; he can be found at the Hotel Suisse on Third Avenue.” They thanked the surgeon and departed. “A cabman should know of the Hotel Suisse,” suggested Webster. So one was summoned, and it proved that he had the necessary information. A rapid drive landed them in front of a small, clean-looking hotel in the neighborhood of the Cooper Union. A stout German with a gleaming bald head was at the desk. “Oh, dot Kenyon?” replied he, in answer to their inquiries. “_Ja_, I know him! He have der room dhirty-dhree got. He is a young kind of a fellar und has a pandage aroundt his head. _Nicht wahr?_” “That’s the man. Can he be seen?”