Anthony was shocked into sympathy. “My _dear_ chap,” he said. “My _dear_ chap!” He went to her and dropped a hand on her shoulder. “You poor child!” Wearily, she sank against him. The reddish-golden head fell on his shoulder. But she made no sound. She was past tears. For a moment they stood thus, while he patted the slim shoulder. Then she drew herself upright and away from him. “You must sit down,” he said. She looked up at him. “Please forgive me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—to make such a fool of myself. And I was very rude.” She sat down. Anthony waved aside apology. “What we’ve got to do,” he said, smiling down at her, “is to do something.” “Yes, yes, I know. But what, what? Oh, you said I could help, but I believe you only did it out of kindness. But if I could really help—how much less—less filthy I should feel!” Anthony conceived a liking for this girl; a liking born not altogether of sympathy. But he wondered, with half-humorous desperation, how he was to provide the cleanser and yet not waste much time. “Consoler-in-Chief to the Birds of the Air, I am,” he said to himself; then aloud: “You can help, Miss Masterson, by listening to me think. In this business, I’m like a mad poet without hands or tongue. I mean, I’ve found out more than the other fellows—the police—but it’s all odds and ends and tangles—little things, queer in themselves, that men would tell me might be found anywhere if one only troubled to look for ’em. But I say they’re not; that they fit!” The girl was sitting upright now, alert, gazing at him intently. “Think, then,” she whispered. “Now for it,” thought Anthony, “and God send it’ll take her in—and quickly.” Aloud, he began: “Reconcile for me—put these things into order and make ’em mean something—if you can. Innocent finger-prints on a weapon which performed a murder. An innocent person—not the one of the finger-prints—stealing letters from the corpse to hide the fact that the corpse had a mistress. An attempt to make a clock give an alibi, the attempt being so clumsily carried out that it seems very ill in accord with other indications of the murderer’s ingenuity. Secret drawer in corpse’s desk full of newspaper-cuttings, all of ’em vicious attacks on corpse when alive. Finger-prints——” “Mr. Gethryn!” the girl interrupted harshly; “you’re making fun of me! No, that’s not fair; you’re just playing with me to make me think I can help. No doubt you mean to be kind—but I _hate_ it!” Anthony for once was crestfallen. The truth of the accusation was so complete as to make an answer impossible. He found himself in the indefensible position of one “who means well.” He groped wildly for words, but was saved; for, suddenly, Dora sprang to her feet. “Those cuttings!” she cried. “Did you mean—do you _really_ want to know anything about them?” Anthony was surprised. “Most certainly I do. I don’t know exactly what I want to know, but that means I want to know everything.”