“The facts have been suppressed pending an investigation.” “Do you know any of the details?” “No, nothing more. I will get them for you.” “I will not trouble you. I will look them up for myself.” “Do you know anything about the case?” “No more than you,” Chick replied evasively. He then hung up the receiver and started for Harlem to interview Michael Hanlon, and in search for more definite evidence. Very little could be found, however, nor could Hanlon impart much information. He stated that the casket had been stolen from a storeroom in the basement of his establishment, and the wagon from a stable back of the building, both occupying a lot adjoining his residence. The stable opened upon a side street, however, and the wagon evidently had been drawn out and taken away with a horse belonging to the thieves, his own not having been removed from its stall. “If it had been, Mr. Carter, I should have heard the rascals,” Hanlon declared, after imparting the foregoing facts. “I would have heard the hoofs on the floor.” “That probably is the only reason why the crooks brought a horse of their own and drew out the wagon quietly,” said Chick. “Most likely.” “The police could find no clew to their identity, eh?” “No, sir. The rascals got away clean enough, sir, and I am out the casket and the wagon, I’m thinking,” Hanlon grumbled bitterly. Chick then had nothing to offer him in the way of encouragement, having found no evidence worthy of note, and he returned to the nearest elevated station, alighting from the train half an hour later at Forty-second Street. It then was after one o’clock, too late for lunch at home. Chick decided to take it in one of the excellent hotels in that locality. As he was about to enter the café, however, one of Nick’s earlier suggestions occurred to him. “There might be something in it,” he muttered. “I’ll go up to the office, instead, and have a look at the register.” He did so--and verified the sagacity of the famous detective. Almost the first entry that met Chick’s gaze, inscribed in the same fine, clean-cut hand of which he had seen specimens that day, was that of: “Charles F. Brooks and wife, Washington, D. C.” “Great guns!” thought Chick, surprised in spite of himself. “Have I really cornered the rats so quickly? If that isn’t Deland’s hand, or that of Gerald Vaughn, at least, I’ll eat my hat.” Instead of plunging over the traces, however, Chick turned to the clerk and remarked: “I see that Mr. and Mrs. Brooks are here, from Washington.” “Yes, they arrived this morning,” said the clerk, smiling. “Are they frequent visitors?” “Well, quite so.” “Not strangers, then?” “Oh, no; they are here each month, and sometimes more frequently.” Chick took a blank card from a tray and wrote a fictitious name on it, adding that of a leading newspaper. “Send this up to their suite, please,” he requested. “They may like to be mentioned in the society notes.”