"Some other time, perhaps," said Indiman, politely, and we drove off. "So you've got it," I said, staring up at the trunk that occupied the box at the hackman's left. "It looks ordinary enough." "The porter told me that it came in last night on the Lake Shore Limited," said Indiman. "Nothing remarkable about that, either." A sudden thought struck me. "By Jove! we're no better than thieves," I said, frowningly. "The possession of a baggage-check doesn't necessarily carry with it the ownership of the parcel for which it calls. The rightful proprietor may be even now at the Grand Central explaining the loss of the check and trying to identify his property." Indiman looked a little blank. "Of course, your obvious theory may be the true one," he said, slowly. "The hunting of mare's-nests is a weakness of mine. But what are you about there?" "Telling the driver to take us back to the station," I answered, with my hand on the check-cord. "I don't know about doing that--just now. There might be some awkward explanations to make to your hypothetical owner. Or, failing him, to the police." "It doesn't absolutely follow," he continued, "that there is an owner or that he is anxious to claim and recover his property. He may have substantial reasons for wanting to get rid of it. Remember that the baggage-check was handed in at my door with the express direction that it was to be given to the gentleman of the house. We'll have to see it through, I think." I had nothing more to say, and shortly afterwards we pulled up at No. 4020 Madison Avenue. Bolder and the hackman carried the trunk in, and Indiman directed that it should be placed in the library, the front room on the first landing. The cabman was paid and dismissed, and we were left alone. "Now for it," said Indiman, gayly. "I have always preferred mutton to lamb." The trunk was of the cheap variety, covered with brown paper that vaguely simulated leather. It was perfectly new, and this was probably its first trip on the road. The lock was of simple construction. It should be easy to find a key to fit it, and one of mine, with a little filing, did the trick. The bolt shot back, and Indiman unhesitatingly threw up the lid. There was no tray in the trunk, and the interior space was filled with some bulky article that had been carefully shrouded by manifold layers of cloth wrappings. I know that the same thought was in both our minds, but neither of us spoke. A keen-bladed ink-eraser lay on the desk before me, and I handed it to Indiman. He made a swift cut in the wrappings and drew the severed edges apart--a naked human foot protruded. To this hour I have only to shut my eyes to immediately recall that horrid vision. I remember particularly the purplish hue of the swollen veins, the unmistakable rigidity of the joints and muscles.