She was a remarkable woman. Even then she knew, or strongly suspected, the thing that the rest of us had missed, the x of the equation. But I think it only fair to record that she was in possession of facts which we did not have, and which she did not divulge until the end. “You have been so ungenerous with me,” she said finally, “that I am tempted not to tell you why I sent for you. Of course, I know I am only a helpless old woman, and you men are people of affairs. But now and then I have a flash of intelligence. I’m going to tell you, but you don’t deserve it.” She went down into the black silk bag at her side which was as much a part of her attire as the false front she wore with such careless abandon, and which, brown in color and indifferently waved, was invariably parting from its mooring. She drew out a newspaper clipping. “On going over Clara’s notes,” she said, “I came to the conclusion, last Tuesday, that the matter of the missing handbag and the letters was important. More important, probably, than the mere record shows. Do you recall the note of distress in Miss Jeremy’s voice? It was almost a wail.” I had noticed it. “I have plenty of time to think,” she added, not without pathos. “There is only one Monday night in the week, and--the days are long. It occurred to me to try to trace that bag.” “In what way?” “How does any one trace lost articles?” she demanded. “By advertising, of course. Last Wednesday I advertised for the bag.” I was too astonished to speak. “I reasoned like this: If there was no such bag, there was no harm done. As a matter of fact, if there was no such bag, the chances were that we were all wrong, anyhow. If there was such a bag, I wanted it. Here is the advertisement as I inserted it.” She gave me a small newspaper cutting “Lost, a handbag containing private letters, car-tickets, etc. Liberal reward paid for its return. Please write to A 31, the Daily News.” I sat with it on my palm. It was so simple, so direct. And I, a lawyer, and presumably reasonably acute, had not thought of it! “You are wasted on us, Mrs. Dane,” I acknowledged. “Well? I see something has come of it.” “Yes, but I’m not ready for it.” She dived again into the bag, and brought up another clipping. “On the day that I had that inserted,” she said impressively, “this also appeared. They were in the same column.” She read the second clipping aloud, slowly, that I might gain all its significance: “Lost on the night of Monday, November the second, between State Avenue and Park Avenue, possibly on an Eastern Line street car, a black handbag containing keys, car-tickets, private letters, and a small sum of money. Reward and no questions asked if returned to Daily News office.”