The poor detective was at his wits’ end. Every way he looked, he seemed to be peering into a blind alley. Conferences with his colleagues or his superiors helped him not at all. Lack of evidence brought all their theories to naught. Unless something more could be discovered the case seemed likely to go unsolved. Or, and this troubled Prescott, unless something was discovered soon, the impulsive and impatient Mrs Lindsay would employ a private detective. And that would be small credit to the work of the force. So Prescott worked away at his job. He went over the letters and papers in the desk, but these gave him no further clew. There was no other communication from Barry, though that, in itself, proved nothing. Yet had there been another it would have been edifying to compare the two. “No clews,” Prescott lamented, looking hopelessly about the room. “No,” Barry agreed. “This detective work is queer, isn’t it?—— Now in story-books, the obliging criminals leave all sorts of interesting bits of evidence or indications of their presence.” “Yes, but real criminals are too canny for that. Not even a fingerprint on the telephone or revolver, except Gleason’s own. And that, though meant to indicate a suicide, proved only a diabolically clever criminal!” “How do you explain the telephone call after the man was fatally shot?” Prescott grunted. “An impossibility like that can be explained only by the discovery of facts not yet known. Maybe the doctors diagnosed wrong——” “No, not Ely Davenport!” Barry declared. “Well, then, maybe the man telephoned before he was shot, but was positive the shot was coming.” “Telephoned in the presence of the murderer?” “Oh, I don’t know! Didn’t I tell you nothing could explain that but to discover some _new_ facts? I haven’t got ’em yet!” “Do you expect to?” “Honest, Mr Barry, I don’t know. A case like this—so full of queer and unexplainable conditions may suddenly become clear—or, it may never do so!” “Isn’t that true of every case?” “Well, I mean some unexpected clew may drop from the skies and clear it all up at once, or it may never be solved at all. Most cases can be worked out piece by piece, and require only patience and perseverance; but when you strike the work of a super-criminal, as this certainly is, then you have to wait for chance to help you. And that’s mighty uncertain!” “Well, I’ll help you, Prescott, to this extent. I won’t leave town and I’ll always be where you can find me. If you believe me, you can call off your shadowers—if you don’t, let them keep on my trail. But as to any startling clew or evidence I can’t promise to give you any.” “Even if you get it yourself?” said the detective, quickly. “You have uncanny intuition!” exclaimed Barry. “I didn’t say that.” “Be careful about compounding a felony, sir.” “Be careful about suspecting an innocent man,” returned Barry, and went away. The artist went to the Lindsay home, but not finding Louis there, followed his trail to the Club.