Meantime O’Malley had started on an examination of the room. There was more than the paper to prove the presence of a recent occupant. The bed showed the imprint of a body; pillow and counterpane were indented by the pressure of a recumbent form. On its foot lay a book, an unworn copy, as if newly bought, of "The Forest Lovers." The table held an ink bottle, the ink still moist round its uncorked mouth, some paper and envelopes and a pen. There was a scattering of pins on the bureau, two gilt hairpins and a black net veil, crumpled into a bunch. Pushed back toward the mirror was the cover of the soap dish containing ashes and the butts of four cigarettes. O’Malley studied the bureau closely, ran the light of his torch back and forth across it, shook out the veil, sniffed it, and put it and the two hairpins carefully into his wallet. Then with the book and the paper in his hand he straightened up, turned to George, and said: "That about cleans it up. There’s nothing for it now but to go back." The janitor, anxiously watchful, followed on their heels as they went down the stairs. Their clattering descent was followed by the strains of the guitar, thinly debonair and mocking as if exulting over their discomfiture. In the street the same shape emerged from the shadows and slouched toward them. A grunted phrase from O’Malley sent it drifting away, spiritless and without response, like a lonely ghost come in timid expectation and repelled by a rebuff. O’Malley dropped into a corner of the taxi and as it glided off, said: "That’s the last of 76 Gayle Street as far as they’re concerned." "Why do you say that?" In the darkness the detective permitted himself a sidelong glance of scorn. "You don’t leave the door unlocked in that sort of place unless you’re done with it. They’ve got all they wanted out of it and quit." "Abandoned it?" "That’s right—made a neat, quiet get-away. They didn’t say they were going, didn’t give up the key—it was on the inside of the door. Just slid out and vanished." "Some one was there yesterday." "Um," O’Malley’s voice showed a pondering concentration of thought. "Some one was lying on the bed reading; waiting or passing time." "They couldn’t have been there to-day—before your men were on the job?" O’Malley drew himself to the edge of the seat, his chest inflated with a sudden breath: "Why couldn’t they? Why couldn’t _that_ have been the rendezvous? Why couldn’t she have lost the child down here on Gayle Street instead of opposite Justin’s? Price was there beforehand: up she comes, tips him off that the taxi’s in the street, sees him leave and goes herself, across to Fifth Avenue where she picks up a cab. It’s safer than the other way—no cops round, janitor in the basement, if she’s seen nothing to be remarked—a lady known to have a room on the top floor." He brought his fist down on his knee. "That’s what they did and it explains what’s been puzzling me." "What?"