"But there is a curious, unintelligible cypher engraved upon it," I said. "Did you notice it?" "Yes. It is the engraving which makes me doubt that I know its owner. His initials were not those." "You speak in the past tense," I observed. "Why!" "Because--well, because we are no longer friends--if you desire to know the truth;" and she handed me back the object, which, with the dress-stud, formed the only clue I had to the identity of the unfortunate victim of the assassin. There was something in her manner which was to me the reverse of convincing. I felt absolutely certain that this unimportant object had, in reality, been identified by her, and that with some hidden motive she was now intentionally misleading me. "Then you do not believe that this really belonged to your friend?" I asked, holding it up to her gaze. "No," she answered quickly, averting her face as though the sight of it were obnoxious. "I feel certain that it did not. Its resemblance is striking--that's all." "It would have been a remarkable coincidence if it really were the property of your friend," I said. "Very remarkable," she admitted, still regarding me strangely. "Yet the trite saying that `The world is small' is nevertheless very true. When I first saw it I felt certain it belonged to a gentleman I knew, but on closer examination I find it is older, more battered, and bears initials which have evidently been engraved several years." "Where did your friend lose his?" I inquired, reflecting upon the lameness of her story. The mere recognition of a lost pencil-case would never have affected her in the manner that sight of this one had if there were not some deeper meaning attached to it. "I have no idea. Indeed, I am not at all sure that it is not still in his possession." "And how came you to be so well acquainted with its aspect?" I asked, in eagerness to ascertain the truth. She hesitated for a few moments. "Because," she faltered--"because it was a present from me." "To an admirer?" She did not answer, but even in that dim lamplight I detected the tell-tale flush mounting to her cheeks. Then, in order, apparently, to cover her confusion, she added-- "I must really go. I shall be late for dinner, and my mother hates to wait for me. Good-bye." Our hands clasped, our eyes met, and I saw in hers a look of deep mystery, as though she held me in suspicion. Her manner and her identification of that object extracted from the pocket of the dead man were very puzzling. "Good-bye," I said. "I hope soon to have the pleasure of meeting you again. I have enjoyed this walk of ours immensely." "When we meet--if ever we do," she answered with a mischievous smile, "remember that I have promised to wear the mask. Good-bye." And she twisted her skirts gracefully, entered the cab, and a moment later was driven off, leaving me alone on the kerb.