ominous brown-stone building. Carroll parked his car at the rear,
assigned some one to stand guard over the body, and the three men,
Leverage carrying the suit-case, ascended the steps to the main room and
thence to the chief's private office.

The warmth of the place was welcome to all of them, and in the
comforting glow of a small grate fire, which nobly assisted the
struggling furnace in its task of heating the spacious structure, Spike
Walters seemed to lose much of the nervousness which he had exhibited
since the discovery of the body. Carroll warmed his hands at the blaze,
and then addressed Leverage.

"How about this case, chief?"

"How about it?"

"You want me to butt in on it?"

"_Want_ you? Holy sufferin' oysters! Carroll, if you didn't work on it,
I'd brain you! You're the only man in the State who could--"

"Soft-pedal the blarney," grinned Carroll. "And now--the suit-case
again."

He dropped to his knees and opened the suit-case. Garment by garment he
emptied it, searching for some clue, some damning bit of evidence, which
might explain the woman's possession of the dead man's belongings. He
found nothing. It was evident that the grip had been carefully packed for
a journey of several days at least; but it was a man's suit-case, and its
contents were exclusively masculine.