A police-officer opened the door for me. So the blow had fallen already. I went on up to the library, taking Bartolomeo with me. At the door I waited a moment. Brownson sat at the long table, the picture of the zealous and efficient guardian of public safety. The maid-servant, Mary, had just been interrogated--of course, it was she who had betrayed us, and Brownson was evidently her young man. What infernal luck! "Now, Mr Indiman--" said Brownson, sternly, "but be careful what you say; it may be used against you." Indiman told the whole story without reserve, and Brownson listened with cold incredulity. But Ellison seemed interested. "A baggage-check handed in at the door," commented the detective, with judicial impassivity. "Where is this organ-grinder?" "Here," I answered, and entered with Uncle Bartolomeo. But the examination, severe as it was, revealed only the bare fact that Bartolomeo had found the brass baggage-check lying on the sidewalk in front of No. 4020 Madison Avenue. He was an honest man, and, moreover, the acticle was of no use to him. He had given it to the servant at the door to be handed over to the gentleman of the house. That was all he knew. By the Holy Virgin, he had spoken the truth! Brownson rang the call-bell. "Bring in the trunk," he said, curtly, and forthwith two policemen appeared with the fatal box, just as it had been exhumed from its resting-place in the coal-bin. "Hullo!" blurted out Ellison, in vast surprise, and somehow my sinking spirits revived with the word. "Who is this gentleman?" demanded Brownson, frowning at the interruption. "Dr. Ellison," I answered. "Medicine?" "Yes." "Hum," said Brownson, importantly. "I will ask him to kindly take charge--" "I should think so," broke in Ellison, cheerfully, "seeing that it's my own property. I lost baggage-check No. 18329, from Cleveland to New York, the night of my arrival in town, and somewhere in this very neighborhood. The next morning I went to the Grand Central to prove my ownership, but the trunk had been claimed and carried away." "You are aware, Dr. Ellison," said Brownson, "that this trunk contains--well, we all know what." "Oh, do we!" retorted Ellison, smartly. "Just stand back there." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the trunk. An irresistible curiosity drew us forward again. Ellison seized the wrapping and jerked it forcibly apart. I turned my eyes away, and Mary screamed outright. "Did you never see an anatomical manikin before?" asked Ellison, scornfully. "Made out of papier-mache, you know, and used for demonstrations in physiology before college classes. They used to come from Paris, but they're making them in Cleveland now, and better than the French ones. I tell you I'm mighty glad to get my 'old man' back; he's just out of the shop and cost me a hundred-dollar bill."