“Did he clean the room the day of the murder?” “Yes, he was here when I came; had just finished.” She paused, waiting for another question, but instead Bartley said “Good night,” and she went outside. When she had gone, he turned to the chief and myself. “I picked this up on the floor,” he said, holding some object in his hand. We came closer to see what it was. As we looked we saw a small bone hairpin, which we gazed at without speaking. As he placed it in his pocket, he said: “It may not mean a single thing. The secretary has her hair bobbed, so, of course, she does not use hairpins. But if the man cleaned up the place the morning of the murder he must have overlooked this.” No one made any reply, and the chief stood looking rather moodily at the desk. Then he asked: “What do you think about that letter?” Instead of replying, Bartley walked over to the typewriting stand. The typewriter was covered, but he took the cover off. Finding a piece of blank paper, he placed it in the machine and struck several of the keys, then wrote a sentence. He turned to ask that the chief let him see the letter, and then evidently copied something from it. Pulling from the machine the sheet upon which he had written, he compared the two for a moment. Then he said. “I do not know, chief, what to say regarding that letter. It was written on this machine, however.” There came a grunt from the chief, and the words: “It was?” “Yes. There is no doubt of it. This machine is a bit out of alignment; the letters ‘e’ and ‘a’ are very much worn. You will find the same markings in the letter you found on the desk and in the copy I struck off.” A comparison of the two sheets of paper convinced the chief and me that they had, indeed, been written upon the same typewriter, the one upon the stand before us. The letters Bartley mentioned were a little worn and both copies showed the same markings. Not only that, the ribbon was rather old, and the type bars seemed out of alignment. As we saw these facts, the chief well expressed my opinion when he said in a very amazed voice: “I guess you are right. But what under heavens does it mean?” Bartley reached for his cigar case, and then he handed it to us. We all took a cigar and after Bartley had lighted his he said: “I can only tell you what I think it might mean, Chief. The letter was written after Warren was killed—written to be discovered.” “How do you make that out?” was the query.