"Not much more," confessed Stone, gazing discontentedly at the papers. "And yet, there must be something to notice. Here's one point. These papers, if tampered with, I mean if anything was added to their contents, were manipulated very carefully. You know how difficult it is to unfold and refold a powder-paper without making it look messy. These, I would be willing to assert, have never been refolded, or, as I say, if they were, it was done very carefully." "That isn't much of a clue," and Hardy smiled. "It may be," returned Stone. "It at least indicates a possible elimination of the clairvoyante and an indication of the murderer preparing the powder alone. At any rate, Hardy, I've told you all this in order to ask your help. Will you go and see what you can round up in the way of the clairvoyante of our dreams? Go to all you can find in New York City. That is the prominent ones. Get a line on beauty doctors, and generally look up this sort of thing. And keep it all under your hat." "All right, Mr. Stone," and Hardy was off at once. Fleming Stone put away the papers, and sat for more than an hour in a brown study. It must be admitted that a photograph of Pauline Stuart, which stood on a near-by table, held his eyes much of the time. And his gaze, as it rested on the lovely face, was now tender and now sad. At last he rang for a servant. To the footman who replied, he made a request that a chamber-maid be sent to him. The girl came, wondering. "Mary?" said Fleming Stone, inquiringly. "Jane, sir," returned the maid, quietly. "Good," said Stone. "You have intelligence, Jane, as shown by your calm rejoinder. Now, I want you to go to the various bedrooms or dressing-rooms of all the members of the family and of all the servants, and bring me all the manicure scissors you can find. I assume that some of the servants might possibly have them?" "Yes, sir, some of them." "Very well. Get all you can possibly find, and be very, _very_ careful to remember which ones are whose. Understand?" "Yes, sir." "Then go. If anybody questions you, say Mr. Stone ordered it." Jane returned with many pairs of the kind of scissors asked for by the Detective. Absorbedly, Stone took them from her, and one by one he used them to snip at a sheet of paper from the library desk. At each test, he asked Jane whose the scissors were, and sometimes he wrote the name beside the cut and sometimes not. One pair in especial seemed to interest him. "Whose are these?" he asked. "Those, sir, I took from Miss Carrington's dressing-table." Jane gave a slight shudder as if at the recollection of the tragedy of that table. "But these are of a different patterned handle from the rest of that dressing-table's silver." "I don't know, sir, as to that. They were there and I brought them." "Very well, Jane. Take them all back to their places. Mind now, don't mix them." "No, sir. Thank you, sir."