The thing was incomprehensible, yet true. Not a single article of
feminine apparel was contained in the suit-case. Not only that, but
every garment therein which bore an identification mark was the
property of Roland Warren, the man whose body leered at them from the
floor of the taxicab.

The two detectives again inspected the suit-case. An extra suit had been
neatly folded. The pockets bore the label of a leading tailor, and the
name "Roland R. Warren." The tailor-made shirts and underwear bore the
maker's name and Warren's initials. The handkerchiefs were Warren's. Even
those articles which were without name or initials contained the same
laundry-mark as those which they knew belonged to the dead man.

Carroll's face showed keen interest. This newest development had rather
startled him, and made an almost irresistible appeal to his love for the
bizarre in crime. The very fact that the circumstances smacked of the
impossible intrigued him. He narrowed his eyes and gazed again upon the
form of the dead man. Finally he nudged Leverage and designated three
initials on the end of the suit-case.

"R.R.W.--Roland R. Warren!" Leverage grunted. "It's his, all right,
Carroll. But just the same there ain't no such animal."

Carroll turned to the dazed Walters.

"Understand what we've just discovered, son?" he inquired mildly.

Spike's teeth were chattering with cold.