“I’ve got to pledge you to secrecy, Tim,” said the Inspector immediately, turning to the red-haired man. “Never let on that you were a witness to the finding of papers in any way implicating Benjamin Morgan in this affair.” “What do you think I am, Inspector?” growled Cronin. “I’m as dumb as an oyster, believe me!” “All right, then.” Queen felt the lining of the hat. There was a distinct crackle. “Now,” remarked Ellery calmly, “we know for the first time definitely why the murderer _had_ to take away the hat Field wore Monday night. In all likelihood the murderer’s name was lettered in the same way—that’s indelible ink, you know—and the murderer couldn’t leave a hat with his own name in it at the scene of the crime.” “By gosh, if you only had that hat, now,” cried Cronin, “you’d know who the murderer is!” “I’m afraid, Tim,” replied the Inspector dryly, “that hat is gone forever.” He indicated a row of careful stitches at the base of the inner band, where the lining was attached to the fabric. He ripped these stitches swiftly and inserted his fingers between the lining and the crown. Silently he drew out a sheaf of papers held together by a thin rubber band. “If I were as nasty as some people think I am,” mused Ellery, leaning back, “I might with perfect justice say, ‘I told you so.’” “We know when we’re licked, my son—don’t rub it in,” chortled the Inspector. He snapped off the rubber band, glanced hastily through the papers and with a satisfied grin deposited them in his breast pocket. “Morgan’s, all right,” he said briefly, and attacked one of the derbies. The inner side of the band was marked cryptically with an X. The Inspector found a row of stitches exactly as in the silk hat. The papers he drew out—a thicker bundle than Morgan’s—he examined cursorily. Then he handed them to Cronin, whose fingers were trembling. “A stroke of luck, Tim,” he said slowly. “The man you were angling for is dead, but there are a lot of big names in this. I think you’ll find yourself a hero one of these days.” Cronin grasped the bundle and feverishly unfolded the papers, one by one. “They’re here—they’re here!” he shouted. He jumped to his feet, stuffing the sheaf into his pocket. “I’ve got to beat it. Inspector,” he said rapidly. “There’s a load of work to do at last—and besides, what you find in that fourth hat is none of my business. I can’t thank you and Mr. Queen enough! So long!” He dashed from the room, and a moment later the snores of the policeman in the foyer came to an abrupt end. The outer door banged shut. Ellery and the Inspector looked at each other. “I don’t know what good this stuff is going to do us,” grumbled the old man, fumbling with the inner band of the last hat, a derby. “We’ve found things and deduced things and run rings around our imaginations—well....” He sighed as he held the band up to the light. It was marked: MISC. CHAPTER XVIII STALEMATE