“I have only three,” she answered, and taking a piece of swan's-down, a lock of golden hair, and a pair of silver-tinsel tights from her portmanteau she handed them over to me. My first impulse was to ask the lady if she remembered the name of the asylum from which she had escaped, but I fortunately refrained from doing so, and she shortly left me, promising to return at the end of the week. For three days I puzzled over the clews. Swan's-down, yellow hair, and a pair of silver-tinsel tights, while very interesting no doubt at times, do not form a very solid basis for a theory establishing the identity of so regal a person as my visitor. My first impression was that she was a vaudeville artist, and that the exhibits she had left me were a part of her make-up. This I was forced to abandon shortly, because no woman with the voice of my visitor would sing in vaudeville. The more ambitious stage was her legitimate field, if not grand opera itself. At this point she returned to my office, and I of course reported progress. That is one of the most valuable things I learned while on earth--when you have done nothing, report progress. “I haven't quite succeeded as yet,” said I, “but I am getting at it slowly. I do not, however, think it wise to acquaint you with my present notions until they are verified beyond peradventure. It might help me somewhat if you were to tell me who it is you think you are. I could work either forward or backward on that hypothesis, as seemed best, and so arrive at a hypothetical truth anyhow.” “That's just what I don't want to do,” said she. “That information might bias your final judgment. If, however, acting on the clews which you have, you confirm my impression that I am such and such a person, as well as the views which other people have, then will my status be well defined and I can institute my suit against my husband for a judicial separation, with back alimony, with some assurance of a successful issue.” I was more puzzled than ever. “Well,” said I, slowly, “I of course can see how a bit of swan's-down and a lock of yellow hair backed up by a pair of silver-tinsel tights might constitute reasonable evidence in a suit for separation, but wouldn't it--ah--be more to your purpose if I should use these data as establishing the identity of--er--somebody else?” “How very dense you are,” she replied, impatiently. “That's precisely what I want you to do.” “But you told me it was your identity you wished proven,” I put in, irritably. “Precisely,” said she. “Then these bits of evidence are--yours?” I asked, hesitatingly. One does not like to accuse a lady of an undue liking for tinsel. “They are all I have left of my husband,” she answered with a sob. “Hum!” said I, my perplexity increasing. “Was the--ah--the gentleman blown up by dynamite?”