“It was horribly careless of me to leave the key in the lock,” the girl murmured, as though speaking more to herself than to the reporter. “Still, I cannot imagine who could have taken them. It is most mysterious.” “Lost anything?” Gale asked curiously. Virginia hesitated. Then, with sudden decision: “Yes; some letters are missing from my desk--very important letters.” “Love letters?” Gale inquired, with a grin. “Not exactly,” the girl replied coldly. “How long have you been in this room, Mr. Gale?” “Not very long. Not more than five minutes, I should say. Why do you ask?” “I was wondering if you had noticed anybody tampering with my desk.” The reporter smiled deprecatingly. “My dear Virginia! If I had, don’t you suppose I would have called them to account?” Suddenly a glint came to his eyes, as an idea occurred to him. “One minute, though! I think, perhaps, I can solve this mystery for you. Tell me, were these letters of such a character that they would be of value to a newspaper?” Virginia sighed. “They would be of great value to a newspaper,” she answered, “but----” “Then I guess I’ve got the answer,” Gale interrupted. “This morning, as I was coming downstairs, I encountered a man coming out of this room. He seemed to be in a great hurry, and it struck me, also, that he appeared very nervous. I would have stopped him and demanded what he was doing here, only I supposed at the time that he had been calling on your father. After he had gone, though, I discovered that your father wasn’t in the house. I have no doubt, now, that it was the chap who stole the letters from your desk.” “And you haven’t any idea who he was?” Virginia asked, an odd break in her voice. “Yes, I have,” Gale answered. “It was the Camera Chap--Hawley.” “Good heavens!” Virginia gasped. “Are you sure, Mr. Gale?” “Absolutely so,” he answered. “Even if I hadn’t seen him,” he added maliciously, “I might have guessed that the robbery was his work. I know his methods. That fellow Hawley is so unprincipled, Virginia, that he’d steal the crutch from a cripple.” Feeling very well satisfied with himself and his evening’s work, Gale went out and repaired to a certain café which he knew was the haunt of a man whom he greatly desired to see. “I believe you were telling me, the other day,” he said, when he had found his man, “that you used to be employed by former President Felix?” “I was his private secretary,” the other answered. “Then you ought to be pretty familiar with his handwriting?” “I know it as well as I do my own.” “Fine!” exclaimed the reporter, suddenly producing a letter. “That being the case, old man, take a good look at this and let me know whether you recognize the fist?” The man studied the script closely, and a look of astonishment came to his face. “It is Felix’s handwriting!” he declared positively.