Pembroke it was neither Bob nor Bill, the good friends of James Decker. But in a way, it was a disappointment, for it only proved one more clue worthless. Where those two ticket stubs came from, or how they got into Robert Pembroke's bedroom, I didn't then stop to think; although I had hazy ideas of tracing some sort of connection with the elevator boy or janitor and these people. But for the moment, all I could do was to take these men's addresses, and present Mr. Decker with a sufficient honorarium to pay him for the trouble and exertion of coming to see me.
I went home at noon, pondering over those ticket stubs. After all, perhaps I had been terribly taken in. Perhaps this Decker man made up the whole story for the purpose of getting the fee which he knew I was pretty sure to give him. Perhaps his two pals were as imaginary as they were good, and perhaps he was only a clever adventurer who had succeeded in fooling a less clever lawyer! Well at any rate, I had done no harm, and I had the men's addresses. Later on, I would tell the District Attorney the whole story, and if he chose to follow it up he could do so.
From the funeral of Robert Pembroke I went straight to the District Attorney's office.
I had come to the conclusion that I must do something, and that I must do it quickly. I knew Buckner was only waiting till the funeral was over to push his investigations; and I knew too, that unless some new evidence was forthcoming from somewhere, his procedure must inevitably result in the arrest of Janet.
I must find that new evidence, which must at least turn the trend of suspicion in some other direction. I could think only of the handkerchief that I had found in Mr. Pembroke's bedroom. This had never been accounted for in any way, and surely it must mean something.
The other articles I had found had proved of little value so far. The ticket stubs promised little or nothing, for I could not feel that the man Decker or his friends were implicated. The time-table gave me no idea of where to look for any clue. It was useless to refer it to the Lackawanna Railroad. Moreover, East Lynnwood was not on that road, nor was Utica, and these were the only two places that had so much as been mentioned in connection with the affair.
The torn telegram, in connection with the letter, seemed to mean nothing; or if it did, it pointed toward Janet's deception in regard to it.
The money was gone, and that, too, in the minds of some people, again suggested Janet's wrong-doing. The key, while it might seem to implicate Leroy, was far from being a definite clue, and if it meant Leroy, it might also mean Janet's complicity.
The hair-pin I left out of consideration, and as a last resort, I determined to run down the owner of that handkerchief.
I rehearsed all these conclusions to the District Attorney, and he smiled a little superciliously. It is strange how the police officials scorn the interesting clues so beloved of the detective mind.
However, Buckner said nothing in opposition to my plan, and at my request handed me the handkerchief. We had little conversation but it was plain to be seen that he was assured of Janet's guilt and saw no other direction in which to look for the criminal.
"Go ahead and investigate that handkerchief business," he said, "but you'll find it leads to nothing. That handkerchief might have been left there by any caller during the last week or so; and as we know Mr. Pembroke had frequent callers, that is of course the explanation."
I couldn't believe this, because, though now crumpled from passing through many hands, when I had found the handkerchief it was comparatively fresh, and looked as if it had but just been shaken from its laundered folds. This would seem to indicate that it had not been in the room long, and moreover had it been left there several days before, it would have been found by Charlotte or by Janet, and laid aside to be restored to its owner.
I put it in my pocket, and after a short further conversation with Mr. Buckner, I was convinced afresh of Janet's impending danger, so that I went away spurred to my utmost endeavor to find some new information.
I examined the handkerchief carefully, but saw only what I had already observed; that it was unusually fine and dainty for a man's possession, and that the embroidered letters were of exquisite workmanship and unique design.
I took a taxicab and began a systematic canvass of the best shops in the city that provided wearing apparel for fastidious men.
The results were not encouraging. One after another, the haberdashers informed me that the handkerchief had not come from their shops. Indeed, they opined that the work had not been done in this country, but that the handkerchief had been bought abroad. However, as I was about to give up my search, one interested shopkeeper told me of a small and very exclusive establishment from which that handkerchief might have been obtained.
With my hopes a trifle buoyed up, I went at once to the address given me, and to my delight the affable cleric recognized the handkerchief.
"Yes," he said, "that is one of ours. We have them hand-embroidered for one of our best customers. He has used that design for many years. Did he recommend you to come here?"
"No," said I, "I'm not ordering handkerchiefs for myself. Moreover, I was not sent here by the owner of this one, nor do I know his name. Are you willing to tell it to me?"
"I see no reason why I shouldn't. That handkerchief belongs to Mr. Gresham,—William Sydney Gresham. It is one of the best bits of work we ever put out, and we are a little proud of it."
"It's beautiful work," I agreed, "and now will you give me Mr. Gresham's address?"
Although not especially keen-witted, the clerk looked a little surprised at this, and hesitated for a moment. But when I told him that the matter was important, he made no further objection, and gave me Mr. Gresham's club address.
Needless to say I went directly there, and by good luck I found Mr. Gresham, pleasantly passing the before dinner hour with some of his friends.
I went to him, introduced myself and asked for a moment's private conversation. He looked surprised, but consented, and with a courteous manner led me to a small room, where we were alone.
"Be seated, Mr. Landon," he said, pleasantly; "what can I do for you?"
He was a handsome man and well set up. He was especially well dressed, in clothes of English cut, and his whole appearance showed attention to details. His face betokened a strong, manly character and his gaze was clear and straightforward.
Without preliminaries, I showed him the handkerchief and said, simply, "Is this your handkerchief, Mr. Gresham?"
"It certainly is," he said, taking the linen square, and glancing at the letters; "did you find it? I thank you very much for restoring my property,—though of no great value."
"Had you missed it?" I said, looking at him closely.
"Bless my soul, no! A man has several handkerchiefs, you know, and I dare say I might lose two or three without missing them. Excuse me, Mr. Landon, but aren't you attaching undue importance to such a trifle as a lost handkerchief?"
"I don't know yet, Mr. Gresham, whether this particular loss of yours will prove to be a trifling matter or not. Do you know Robert Pembroke?"
"The man who was murdered a few days ago?"
"Yes."
"No, I never knew him; but I read in the papers of the poor fellow's death and thought it most shocking. I trust they will discover the murderer and avenge the crime."
If Mr. Gresham were implicated in the affair, he certainly carried off this conversation with a fine composure. But I resolved to startle his calm if I could.
"Then can you explain, Mr. Gresham," I said, "how this handkerchief of yours happened to be found on the bed of the murdered man the morning after the murder?"
"Great Heavens, no! nor do I believe it was found there!"
"But it was, for I myself found it."
"My handkerchief! In Mr. Pembroke's bedroom! Impossible!"
The man spoke with an angry inflection and a rising