“I have read stories where fellows who don’t know much start out to solve murder mysteries, but they always find something which all the detectives and police authorities overlooked, which gives them the right clue to work on. It’s very good for tales, but I find nothing. The rest are just as smart and smarter at finding clues than I am. They got nothing. I got nothing, and what to do would puzzle a Solomon.” Dick stopped and looked up to the windows of Penelope’s home, where his wandering feet had brought him. He had not seen her for two days; so busy on the case, he wrote her with a groan, and then he had sent her a bunch of roses, and gone forth to kill another day in aimless wanderings. But here, before her door--how could a lover resist the temptation to enter and be happy in the presence of his divinity for a few moments at least? Richard was not one of the resisting kind any way, so, after a moment’s thought, he ran up the broad stone steps and was ushered into Penelope’s room off the library--half sitting-room, half study--to wait for her. Nothing was wanting in Penelope’s special den, that luxury could suggest, to make it an exquisite retreat for a young woman with a taste for the beautiful. There were heavy portieres, soft, rich carpet, handsome rugs here and there on the floor and thrown carelessly over low divans. Chairs and lounges of different shapes, all made for comfort, little tables strewed with rich bric-a-brac, unique spirit lamps, and on easels and hanging around were paintings and etchings, all of which, as Penelope said, had a story in them. There were some fine statues, among which were several the work of Penelope. A little low organ, with a piano lamp near it, stood open and there were music and books in profusion. Near where the daylight came strongest was a sensible flat-top desk littered with paper, cards, books and the thousand little trinkets--useless, if you please--which a refined woman gathers about to please her eye. The most unusual things that would have impressed a stranger, if by some unknown chance he could gain admittance here, was a mixed collection of odd canes and weapons, and a skull in the centre of the desk, which was utilized as an inkstand and a penholder. “Why, Dick,” said Penelope, as she tripped lightly in, clad in an artistic gray carriage gown. “I am glad to see you. I wish you had been earlier so you could have enjoyed a drive with aunt and me.” “I have been busy,” Richard said bravely, releasing the hand she had given him on entering. They sat down together on a sofa. “I have been so occupied that I haven’t had time for a drive these last few days.” “And have you discovered anything yet?” Penelope asked, eagerly. “Well, not exactly,” hesitatingly, “it will take time to clear it all up, you know.” “Tell me, do you know her name yet, and where she came from, and was she really murdered?”