“Evidently, he did,” he said. Then he took up the matter of Judge Parlin’s confession. “I do not wish to pain you,” he said, “but I would not be justified in letting that drop without going into it further. Have you any suspicion who Theodore’s mother was--or is, since she is still living, or was between five and six years ago?” “I haven’t the faintest suspicion,” she said. “But surely this has been raked open enough. You can let that wound heal.” “I can let nothing heal,” he said. “I don’t for the life of me see how that can have anything to do with this murder, but that’s no reason I may not find that it has lots to do with it. At any rate, I must find her out.” “Can you do it on the feeble clue we have?” she asked. He smiled. “On such a clue, I’ll trace her in a week and not half try. Your husband intended to shield her from discovery, and but for these untoward circumstances, we would be bound to respect his wishes. As it is, I must know the identity of the woman. I hope I’ll find nothing to compel me to go farther. In the meantime, I’m going to take with me this blotting-pad, and I want you to examine it so that you can identify it beyond question, blotter and all. It’s too important for any mistake.” Just then Mary Mullin brought word that Mr. McManus had come in response to a message sent earlier in the evening by Mr. Trafford. Mr. McManus had been with Mr. Wing for a number of years, and held the most confidential relation to his principal of any in the office. Since the murder he had naturally taken charge of his personal affairs. He was a man of thirty, tall and lithe, with a nervous force about him that was held well in control by strong will-power. “Do you know what special engagements Mr. Wing had for the eleventh, that caused him to expect a particularly busy day?” the detective asked. “None connected with office matters. It must have been a personal engagement.” “Did you open this safe the day after the murder?” “Yes.” “Was it properly closed and locked?” “So far as I could see.” “I’d have given a hundred dollars if I’d been here,” Trafford said earnestly. McManus looked at him in surprise. “Certainly,” he said, “you don’t suspect robbery?” “I don’t suspect anything,” Trafford replied, somewhat brusquely. “Of all things, I avoid suspicion and guesses. I’d like you to open the safe again.” McManus knelt, drew from his pocket a paper with a series of figures written on it, and following these with the turnings of the knob, threw open the door. Within was revealed a small iron door surrounded by pigeon-holes, the divisions of wood. Trafford dropped on his knees and gave peculiar scrutiny to the door, and especially the lock. Then he turned towards McManus: “These two empty pigeon-holes on the left; they were empty when you first opened the safe?” “Every paper is in the exact place I found it,” McManus answered sharply. “My profession has taught me some things!” “And this door?”