He rose as he spoke, and took from the mantel the package she had clung
to during all her enforced journey. He untied the parcel, and both men
bent over its meager contents. Though Brencherly had seen them under the
wavering arc lights of Washington Square, he now gave each article the
closest scrutiny. Nothing offered any clew, except the wallet. That,
worn as it was, showed its costly texture, and the marks of careful
mountings. It was unmistakably a man's wallet, and its flexibility
denoted constant use. Brencherly set it on one side.

"Anything else?" he asked.

The other nodded. He had the most important find in reserve.

"These," he said, and drew from his pocket a bunch of newspaper
clippings. He laid each one on the table. "Now, _what_ do you think of
_that_?" His lean, cadaverous face took on a look of satisfied cunning.
If his colleague had not chosen to take him into his confidence, he
could show him that he was quite capable of drawing his own inferences
and making his own conclusions. He sat back and nonchalantly lit a
cigarette.

There were at least twenty cuttings, of all sizes, from a half page from
a Sunday supplement to a couple of lines from a financial column. But
all bore the name of Victor Mahr more or less conspicuously displayed.
Two scraps showed conclusively that they had been cherished and handled
more than all the others. One was a sketch of the millionaire's country
estate; the other, a reproduction from a photograph of his old-fashioned
and imposing city residence.