“Mrs. Purvis,” I said, “will you tell me where you were on Tuesday evening of last week?” “Certainly;” and she turned back the leaves of the book. “I went to a theatre party with my friends, the Hepworths; and afterward, we went to a little supper at a restaurant. I returned here about midnight. Must I prove this?” she added, smiling; “for I can probably do so, by the hotel clerk and by my maid. And, of course, by my friends who gave the party.” “No, you needn't prove it,” I answered, certain now that she knew nothing of the Crawford matter; “but I hope you can give me more information about your card.” “Why, I remember that very night, I gave my cards to two ladies who were at the theatre with us; and I remember now that at that time I had only these old-fashioned cards. I was rather ashamed of them, for Americans are punctilious in such matters; and now that I think of it, one of the ladies was carrying a gold-mesh bag.” “Who was she?” I asked, hardly daring to hope that I had really struck the trail. “I can't seem to remember her name, but perhaps it will come to me. It was rather an English type of name, something like Coningsby.” “Where did she live?” “I haven't the slightest idea. You see I meet these ladies so casually, and I really never expect to see any of them again. Our exchange of cards is a mere bit of formal courtesy. No, I can't remember her name, or where she was from. But I don't think she was a New Yorker.” Truly it was hard to come so near getting what might be vital information, and yet have it beyond my grasp! It was quite evident that Mrs. Purvis was honestly trying to remember the lady's name, but could not do so. And then I had what seemed to me an inspiration. “Didn't she give you her card?” I asked. A light broke over Mrs. Purvis's face. “Why, yes, of course she did! And I'm sure I can find it.” She turned to a card-tray, and rapidly running over the bits of pasteboard, she selected three or four. “Here they are,” she exclaimed, “all here together. I mean all the cards that were given me on that particular evening. And here is the name I couldn't think of. It is Mrs. Cunningham. I remember distinctly that she carried a gold bag, and no one else in the party did, for we were admiring it. And here is her address on the card; Marathon Park, New Jersey.” I almost fainted, myself, with the suddenness of the discovery. Had I really found the name and address of the owner of the gold bag? Of course there might be a slip yet, but the evidence seemed clear that Mrs. Cunningham, of Marathon Park, owned the bag that had been the subject of so much speculation. I had no idea where Marathon Park might be, but that was a mere detail. I thanked Mrs. Purvis sincerely for the help she had given me, and I was glad I had not told her that her casual acquaintance was perhaps implicated in a murder mystery. I made my adieux and returned at once to West Sedgwick.