was dainty, plain and fine, of sheer linen, with a narrow hem.
To me it indicated an owner of a refined, feminine type, and
absolutely nothing more. I couldn't help thinking that even
Fleming Stone could not infer any personal characteristics of the
lady from that blank square of linen.

The vanity case I knew to be a fad of fashionable women, and had
that been monogrammed, it might have proved a clue. But, though
pretty, it was evidently not of any great value, and was merely
such a trifle as the average woman would carry about.

And yet I felt exasperated that with so many articles to study, I
could learn nothing of the individual to whom they belonged. The
gloves were hopeless. Of a good quality and a medium size, they
seemed to tell me nothing. They were but slightly soiled, and
apparently might have been worn once or twice. They had never
been cleaned, as the inside showed no scrawled hieroglyphics.
But all of these conclusions pointed nowhere save to the average
well-groomed American woman.

The hair-pins and the silver money were equally bare of
suggestion, but I hopefully picked up the bit of newspaper.

"Surely this newspaper clipping must throw some light," I mused,
but it proved to be only the address of a dyeing and cleaning
establishment in New York City.

"This is being taken care of?" I said, and the burly inspector,
who up to now had not spoken, said: