Had this latent suspicion against Mr. Moore any solid foundation? Was he the guilty man? The memorandum I had come across in the book which had been lately pulled down from the library shelves showed that, notwithstanding his testimony to the contrary, he had been in that house close upon that fatal night, if not on the very night itself. It also showed his extreme interest in the traditions of the family. But did it show anything more? Had he interrupted his writing to finish his query in blood, and had one of his motives for this crime been the acquisition of this filigree ball? If so, why had he left it on the table upstairs? A candle had been lit in that room—could it have been by him in his search for this object? It would be a great relief to believe so. What was the reason then that my mind refused so emphatically to grasp this possibility and settle upon him as the murderer of Mrs. Jeffrey? I can not tell. I hated the man, and I likewise deeply distrusted him. But I could not, even after this revelation of his duplicity, connect him in my thoughts with absolute crime without a shock to my intuitions. Happily, my scruples were not shared by my colleagues. They had listed him. Here I felt my shoulder touched, and a newspaper was thrust into my hand by the man who had just addressed me. “Look down the lost and found column,” said he. “The third advertisement you will see there came from the district attorney’s office; the next one was inserted by Mr. Moore himself.” I followed his pointing finer and read two descriptions of the filigree ball. The disproportion in the rewards offered was apparent. That promised by Uncle David was calculated to rouse any man’s cupidity and should have resulted in the bauble’s immediate return. “He got ahead of the police that time,” I laughed. “When did these advertisements appear?” “During the days you were absent from Washington.” “And how sure are you that he did not get this jewel back?” “Oh, we are sure. His continued anxiety and still active interest prove this, even if our surveillance had been less perfect.” “And the police have been equally unsuccessful?” “Equally.” “After every effort?” “Every.” “Who was the man who collected and carried out those things from the southwest chamber?” He smiled. “You see him,” said he. “It was you?” “Myself.” “And you are sure this small ball was among them?” “No. I only know that I have seen it somewhere, but that it wasn’t among the articles I delivered to Mr. Jeffrey.” “How did you carry them?” “In a hand-bag which I locked myself.” “Before leaving the southwest chamber?” “Yes.” “Then it is still in that room?” “Find it,” was his laconic reply.