“Didn’t that strike you as a strange proceeding?” “Yes, it did! I thought a lot about it. I went over the call-sheet and asked all of the drivers. Two are out yet, but I know where they were at the time.” “Do you often take representatives of the British Government around? Have they a charge-account?” “I can’t answer those questions. You must ask Mr. Hilton.” “Do you want to tell me anything about James Ponsardin?” The girl started. She folded the call-sheet by running it through her fingers. “No, I don’t! You’ll have to see him.” Fay fished in his pocket and brought forth the same card he had before shown to the girl. “You’ll find me at Mr. George Mott’s office. Please call me up if you discover anything. Ask those two drivers whom you didn’t question. Help us in every way. This murder is an international matter. Keep thinking about what happened last night. We must find the murderer!” Fay laid the card on the desk, bowed slightly toward the silent girl, nodded to the stenographer, and joined Rake in the run-way of the garage. * * * * * The big ex-convict was staring at the group of drivers who were awaiting assignments. He smiled broadly as he felt Fay’s hand on his shoulder. “Some bunch, Chester!” “Any of your old pals here?” “The only one I remember is that snob-nosed mechanic over there--the fellow under that car.” Fay wheeled. A pair of bright eyes, grease-rimmed and shadowed with blond lashes, was peering out at him. A tapping sounded upon the rear axle of the taxi as Fay stooped a trifle. The mechanic extended one hand and coiled his fingers about a spanner. “The only one in the place,” said Rake. “I served time with him somewhere--maybe in Sing Sing, maybe Joliet.” “Come on, Rake!” Fay led the way to the sidewalk, nodded pleasantly to the staring drivers, then turned toward the west. It was at the corner of the block where he paused and glanced in the direction of the garage. “The entire case rests there,” he declared without pointing. “Stephney was murdered in a Gray taxi. He was suffocated in some way to render him unconscious. He was tossed on top of a freight-train after being well plucked. This much we know. Now, how was it done?” “I don’t think a woman was mixed up in it. That girl looked like a perfect lady. An old night-hawk, who is as crooked as his whip, might do it. He could get a cab an’ turn the trick.” “But the mysterious way of suffocating a man?” The ex-convict scratched his head. “That’s different,” he admitted. “O’Toole, Flynn, Fogarty, Harris an’ Johnson--they ought to discover something, Chester. Harrigan, Mr. Mott’s man, sent them running after you telephoned. He’s called on the Harlem Branch for three more of the Brotherhood to cover the case. You’ve got nine or ten boys out now.” “Hardly enough. We’ll get more! Suppose we walk west for a block or two. I want to think this puzzle over.”