you placed Mr. Quadrant was fastened in this fashion?"
"Yes; and I put the lid on and fastened it myself."
"What, then, did you do with the screw-driver? You might have left it at the house."
"I might have, but I didn't. No; I'm not getting up a combination and then leaving the key around loose. No, sir; there's only one of those screw-drivers, and I take care of it myself. I'll show it to you."
The old man went to a drawer, which he unlocked, and brought back the tool.
"You see what it is," he continued – "double-ended. This end is just the common every-day screw-driver. That is for the dummies that fill up the hollow ends after the bolts are sent home. The other end, you see, looks just like an ordinary screw with straight sides. There's a shoulder to keep it from jamming. Now that's the only one of those, and I keep it locked in that drawer with a Yale lock, and the key is always in my pocket. No; I guess that coffin wasn't opened after I shut it."
Mr. Barnes examined the tool closely, and formed his own conclusions, which he thought best to keep to himself.
"Yes," said he aloud; "it does seem as though the mistake must be in the identification."
"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mr. Berial, delighted at thinking that he had convinced the detective. "Oh, I guess I know my business."
"I was told at the house," said Mr. Barnes, "that when you left, after closing the coffin, one of your men stayed behind. Why was that?"
"Oh, I was hungry and anxious to get back for dinner. One of my men, Jack, I brought away with me, because I had to send him up to another place to get some final directions for another funeral. The other man stayed behind to straighten up the place and bring off our things in the wagon."
"Who was this man? What is his name?"
"Jerry, we called him. I don't know his last name."
"I would like to have a talk with him. Can I see him?"
"I am afraid not. He isn't working with me any more."
"How was that?"
"He left, that's all. Threw up his job."
"When was that?"
"This morning."
"This morning?"
"Yes; just as soon as I got here, about eight o'clock."
Mr. Barnes wondered whether there was any connection between this man's giving up his position, and the account of the discoveries in regard to Mr. Quadrant's body which the morning papers had published.
"Mr. Berial," said Mr. Barnes after a few moments' thought, "I wish you would let me have a little talk with your man – Jack, I think you called him. And I would like to speak to him alone if you don't mind. I feel that I must find this other fellow, Jerry, and perhaps Jack may be able to give me some information as to his home, unless you can yourself tell me where he lives."
"No; I know nothing about him," said Mr. Berial. "Of course you can speak to Jack. I'll call him in here and I'll be off to attend to some business. That will leave you alone with him."
Jack, when he came in, proved to be a character. Mr. Barnes soon discovered that he had little faith in the good intentions of any one in the world except himself. He evidently was one of those men who go through life with a grievance, feeling that all people have in some way contributed to their misfortune.
"Your name is Jack," said Mr. Barnes; "Jack what?"
"Jackass, you might say," answered the fellow, with a coarse attempt at wit.
"And why, pray?"
"Well, a jackass works like a slave, don't he? And what does he get out of it? Lots of blows, plenty of cuss words, and a little fodder. It's the same with yours truly."
"Very well, my man, have your joke. But now tell me your name. I am a detective."
"The devil a much I care for that. I ain't got nothin' to hide. My name's Randal, if you must have it. Jack Randal."
"Very good. Now I want to ask you a few questions about the funeral of Mr. Quadrant."
"Ask away. Nobody's stoppin' you."
"You assisted in preparing the body for the coffin, I think?"
"Yes, and helped to put him in it."
"Have you any idea how he got out of it again?" asked Mr. Barnes suddenly.
"Nit. Leastways, not any worth mentionin', since I can't prove what I might think."
"But I should like to know what you think, anyway," persisted the detective.
"Well, I think he was took out," said Randal with a hoarse laugh.
"Then you do not believe that he was cremated?"
"Cremated? Not on your life. If he was made into ashes, would he turn up again a floater and drift onto the marble at the Morgue? I don't think."
"But how could the body have gotten out of the coffin?"
"He couldn't. I never saw a stiff do that, except once, at an Irish wake, and that fellow wasn't dead. No, the dead don't walk. Not these days. I tell you, he was took out of the box. That's as plain as your nose, not meanin' to be personal."
"Come, come, you have said all that before. What I want to know is, how you think he could have been taken out of the coffin."
"Lifted out, I reckon."
Mr. Barnes saw that nothing would be gained by getting angry, though the fellow's persistent flippancy annoyed him extremely. He thought best to appear satisfied with his answers, and to endeavor to get his information by slow degrees, since he could not get it more directly.
"Were you present when the coffin lid was fastened?"
"Yes; the boss did that."
"How was it fastened? With the usual style of screws?"
"Oh, no! We used the boss's patent screw, warranted to keep the corpse securely in his grave. Once stowed away in the boss's patent screw-top casket, no ghost gets back to trouble the long-suffering family."
"You know all about these patent coffin-screws?"
"Why, sure. Ain't I been working with old Berial these three years?"
"Does Mr. Berial always screw on the coffin lids himself?"
"Yes; he's stuck on it."
"He keeps the screw-driver in his own possession?"
"So he thinks."
"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Barnes, immediately attentive.
"Just what I say. Old Berial thinks he's got the only screw-driver."
"But you know that there is another?"
"Who says so? I don't know anything of the sort."
"Why, then, do you cast a doubt upon the matter by saying that Mr. Berial thinks he has the only one?"
"Because I do doubt it, that's all."
"Why do you doubt it?"
"Oh, I don't know. A fellow can't always account for what he thinks, can he?"
"You must have some reason for thinking there may be a duplicate of that screw-driver."
"Well, what if I have?"
"I would like to know it."
"No doubt! But it ain't right to cast suspicions when you can't prove a thing, is it?"
"Perhaps others may find the proof."
"Just so. People in your trade are pretty good at that, I reckon."
"Good at what?"
"Proving things that don't exist."
"But if your suspicion is groundless, there can be no harm in telling it to me."
"Oh, there's grounds enough for what I think. Look here, suppose a case. Suppose a party, a young female party, dies. Suppose her folks think they'd like to have her