he talked and looked like one. Rather well educated too, I think."
Ashton-Kirk thanked the clerk, and the now beaming Mr. Bernstine, and with Pendleton left the place.
"Well,"said Pendleton, as they climbed into the car, "this about fixes the thing, doesn't it? The musician, Antonio Spatola, is the guilty man, beyond a doubt."
The investigator settled back after giving the chauffeur his next stop.
"Beyond a doubt,"said he, "is rather an extreme expression. The fact that the bayonet was purchased by an Italian who gave his address as Christie Place is not enough to convict Spatola. All sorts of people live in that street, and there are perhaps other Italians among them."
Pendleton called out to the chauffeur to stop.
"We'll settle that at once,"said he. "Spatola's picture is in the papers. We'll ask the clerk if it is that of the man to whom he sold the weapon."
But Ashton-Kirk restrained him.
"I thought of the published portraits while Sime was speaking,"said he. "And I also thought that it was very fortunate that neither he nor his employer were readers of the newspapers."
"How do you know that they are not?"
"If they had read to-day's issues they would have at once connected the Italian who purchased the bayonet with the one who is said to have used it—wouldn't they; especially as both Italians lived on the same street? Bernstine and Sime said nothing because they suspect nothing. And, as I have said, this is fortunate, because, suspecting nothing, they will continue,"with a smile, "to say nothing. If the police or reporters got this, they'd swoop down on the trail and perhaps spoil everything!"
"But Bernstine or his clerk will hear of the matter sooner or later,"complained Pendleton. "And the police and reporters will then get in on the thing anyhow."
"But there will be a delay,"said his friend. "And that may be what we need just now. Perhaps a few hours will mean success. You can never tell. The best that we could get by explaining matters to Sime would be a positive identification of Spatola, or the reverse. And we can get that from him at any time. So you see, we lose nothing by waiting."
"I guess that's so,"Pendleton acknowledged, and again the car started forward. At the huge entrance to a railroad station they drew up once more.
Within, Ashton-Kirk inquired for the General Passenger Agent and was directed to the ninth floor. The agent was a slim little man with huge whiskers of snowy whiteness, and a most dignified manner.
"Oh, yes,"he said, after glancing at the investigator's card. "I have heard of you, of course. Who,"with a little bow, "has not? Indeed, if I remember aright, this road had the honor to employ you a few years ago in a matter necessitating some little delicacy of handling. Am I not right?"
"And I think it was you,"said Ashton-Kirk, smoothly, "who provided me with some very clearly cut facts which were of considerable service."
The little General Passenger Agent looked pleased and smoothed his beautiful whiskers softly.
"I was most happy,"said he.
"Just now,"said Ashton-Kirk, "I am engaged in a matter of some consequence, and once more you can be of assistance to me."
"Sit down,"invited the other, readily. "Sit down, and command me."
Both Pendleton and the investigator sat down. The latter said to the passenger agent:
"I understand that every railroad has a system by which it can tell which conductor has punched a ticket."
"Oh, yes. A very simple one. You see the hole left by each punch is different. One will cut a perfectly round hole, another will be square, still another will be a triangle, and so on, indefinitely."
From his card case, Ashton-Kirk produced the small red particle which he had found upon the desk of the murdered man.
"Here is a fragment cut from a ticket,"he said. "It is shaped like a keystone. I should like to know, if you can tell me, what train is taken out by the conductor who uses the keystone punch."
The agent touched a signal and picked up the end of a tube.
"The head ticket counter,"said he. "At once."Then he laid down the tube and continued to his visitors. "He is the man who can supply that sort of information instantly."
The ticket counter was a heavy-set young man, in spectacles and with his hair much rumpled. He peered curiously at the strangers.
"Does any conductor on our lines use a punch which cuts out a keystone?"inquired the General Passenger Agent.
"Yes, Purvis,"replied the heavy young man. "Runs the Hammondsville local."
"I am obliged to you both,"said Ashton-Kirk. "This little hint may be immensely valuable to me. And now,"to the agent, "if I could have a moment with Conductor Purvis, I would be more grateful to you than ever."
"His train is out in the shed now,"said the ticket counter, looking at his watch. "Leaves in eight minutes."
"I'm sorry that I can't have him up here for you,"said the passenger agent. "Just now that is impossible. But,"inquiringly, "couldn't you speak to him down on the platform?"
"Of course,"replied Ashton-Kirk.
He and Pendleton arose; the little man with the large white whiskers was thanked once more, as was the heavy young man with the rumpled hair.
"You'll find the Hammondsville train at Gate E,"the latter informed them.
Then the two shot down to the platform level and made their way toward Gate E.
CHAPTER XI
PENDLETON IS VASTLY ENLIGHTENED
The Hammondsville local was taking on its passengers. It was a sooty train, made up of three coaches and a combination baggage and smoking car. The gateman pointed out its conductor, inside, and the two approached him.
He was a spare, elderly man with a wrinkled, shrewd face, and a short, pointed manner of speech.
"Oh, the General Passenger Agent sent you?"said he, examining them. "All right. What's wanted?"
"Your train stops at a station called Cordova, does it not?"
"It stops at every station on the run. Cordova's one of them."
"There is an institution at Cordova, I believe?"
"For deaf and dumb kids—yes."
"Of course some of the people from there ride in and out with you at times."
"I don't get many of the youngsters. But the folks that run the place often come to the city."
"You are acquainted with them, of course. I mean in the way that local conductors come to be acquainted with their regular riders."
Purvis grinned.
"Say,"said he. "It's hard to get acquainted with some of them asylum people. There's only a couple of them that can talk!"
"I see."Pendleton noted Ashton-Kirk's dark eyes fixed steadfastly upon the man's face as though he desired to read the remainder from his expression. "There is one of them,"continued the investigator, "whom perhaps you have noticed. He's rather a small man, and wears thick glasses. He also dresses very carefully, and he wears a silk hat."
"Oh, yes,"said the conductor, "I know him. He goes in and out quite often. Very polite too. Always says good day with his fingers; if the train is crowded, he's a great little fellow for getting up and giving his seat to the ladies."
"Have you ever heard his name?"
"Yes. It's Locke. He's some kind of a teacher."
Ashton-Kirk thanked