“Why, of course,” the conductor said shrewdly. “Find the man who skipped out with this gentleman’s clothes, and you’ve probably got the murderer.” “I went to bed in lower nine,” I said, my mind full again of my lost papers, “and I wakened in number seven. I was up in the night prowling around, as I was unable to sleep, and I must have gone back to the wrong berth. Anyhow, until the porter wakened me this morning I knew nothing of my mistake. In the interval the thief—murderer, too, perhaps—must have come back, discovered my error, and taken advantage of it to further his escape.” The inquisitive man looked at me from between narrowed eyelids, ferret-like. “Did any one on the train suspect you of having valuable papers?” he inquired. The crowd was listening intently. “No one,” I answered promptly and positively. The doctor was investigating the murdered man’s effects. The pockets of his trousers contained the usual miscellany of keys and small change, while in his hip pocket was found a small pearl-handled revolver of the type women usually keep around. A gold watch with a Masonic charm had slid down between the mattress and the window, while a showy diamond stud was still fastened in the bosom of his shirt. Taken as a whole, the personal belongings were those of a man of some means, but without any particular degree of breeding. The doctor heaped them together. “Either robbery was not the motive,” he reflected, “or the thief overlooked these things in his hurry.” The latter hypothesis seemed the more tenable, when, after a thorough search, we found no pocketbook and less than a dollar in small change. The suit-case gave no clue. It contained one empty leather-covered flask and a pint bottle, also empty, a change of linen and some collars with the laundry mark, S. H. In the leather tag on the handle was a card with the name Simon Harrington, Pittsburg. The conductor sat down on my unmade berth, across, and made an entry of the name and address. Then, on an old envelope, he wrote a few words and gave it to the porter, who disappeared. “I guess that’s all I can do,” he said. “I’ve had enough trouble this trip to last for a year. They don’t need a conductor on these trains any more; what they ought to have is a sheriff and a _posse_.” The porter from the next car came in and whispered to him. The conductor rose unhappily. “Next car’s caught the disease,” he grumbled. “Doctor, a woman back there has got mumps or bubonic plague, or something. Will you come back?” The strange porter stood aside. “Lady about the middle of the car,” he said, “in black, sir, with queer-looking hair—sort of copper color, I think, sir.” CHAPTER V. THE WOMAN IN THE NEXT CAR