window, unless it were a considerable amount of crumbled putty,
which he fingered with puzzled curiosity.

In the front room a mass of papers had been half burned. Some of
them were local journals, mostly the Evening Register. A few were
publications in the Arabic text.

"Oriental newspapers," remarked Bertram.

Average Jones picked them up and began to fold them. From between
two sheets fluttered a very small bit of paper, narrow and half
curled, as if from the drying of mucilage. He lifted and read it.

"Here we are again, Bert," he remarked in his most casual tone.
"The quality of this Mercy is strained, all right."

The two men bent over the slip, studying it. The word was, as
Average Jones had said, in a strained, effortful handwriting, and
each letter stood distinct. These were the characters:

MERCY

"Is it mathematical, do you think, possibly?" asked Average Jones.

"All alone by itself like that? Rather not! More like a label, if
you ask me."

"The little sister of the label on the cabinet, then."

"Cherchez la femme," observed Bertram. "It sounds like perfect