"You have not heard what I have to say on a still more important matter," said she. "When we have exhausted the one topic, we may both feel like turning on the fresh lights you speak of. Mr. Gryce, on what does this mystery hinge? On the bit of writing which these young people were so alarmed at having left behind them." "Ah! It is from that you would work! Well, it is a good point to start from. But we have found no such bit of writing." "Have you searched for it? You did not know till now that any importance might be attached to a morsel of paper with some half-dozen words written on it." "True, but a detective searches just the same. We ransacked that room as few rooms have been ransacked in years. Not for a known clew, but for an unknown one. It seemed necessary in the first place to learn who this man was. His papers were consequently examined. But they told nothing. If there had been a scrap of writing within view or in his desk----" "It was not on his person? You had his pockets searched, his clothes----" "A man who has died from violence is always searched, madam. I leave no stone unturned in a mysterious case like this." Miss Butterworth's face assumed an indefinable expression of satisfaction, which did not escape Mr. Gryce's eye, though that member was fixed, according to his old habit, on the miniature of her father which she wore, in defiance of fashion, at her throat. "I wonder," said she, in a musing tone, "if I imagined or really saw on Mr. Adams's face a most extraordinary expression; something more than the surprise or anguish following a mortal blow? A look of determination, arguing some superhuman resolve taken at the moment of death, or--can you read that face for me? Or did you fail to perceive aught of what I say? It would really be an aid to me at this moment to know." "I noted that look. It was not a common one. But I cannot read it for you----" "I wonder if the young man you call Sweetwater can. I certainly think it has a decided bearing on this mystery; such a fold to the lips, such a look of mingled grief and--what was that you said? Sweetwater has not been admitted to the room of death? Well, well, I shall have to make my own suggestion, then. I shall have to part with an idea that may be totally valueless, but which has impressed me so that it must out, if I am to have any peace to-night. Mr. Gryce, allow me to whisper in your ear. Some things lose force when spoken aloud." And leaning forward, she breathed a short sentence into his ear which made him start and regard her with an amazement which rapidly grew into admiration. "Madam!" he cried, rising up that he might the better honor her with one of his low bows, "your idea, whether valueless or not, is one which is worthy of the acute lady who proffers it. We will act on it, ma'am, act at once. Wait till I have given my orders. I will not keep you long." And with another bow, he left the room. CHAPTER VII. AMOS'S SON.