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friends of mine outside. Wait here, the rest of you, while I arrange for Mr. Lew Stait to take a little trip in a squad car.”
    He beckoned to the surviving twin. “You might as well get it over with,” he said kindly. “You’re the nearest male relative.”
    Lew Stait followed the Inspector out of the door, and a moment later Miss Withers heard the rising wail of the siren again, bearing Stait and one of the plainclothes men down to the gray building with the marble mattresses.
    She herded Aunt Abbie and Hubert up the stairs, warning them that the Inspector would not want them to carry the news to the old lady on the top floor.
    It was about ten minutes before Inspector Piper reappeared. Sergeant Taylor was with him, and behind the wiry little sergeant loomed the bulk of McTeague, the biggest and the dumbest-appearing detective on the force. He had dull, lifeless blue eyes that blinked often. Every blink printed a clear photograph on the sensitized paper that was the memory of McTeague.
    Miss Withers nodded to the two newcomers, who separated—one to each entrance of the house. Then she drew Piper aside. “What about some dinner, Oscar? All you’ve had since lunch is tea and cinnamon toast, and you must be starved.” She showed him her little address book, its pages filled with curly-queues. “I’m running out of paper.”
    “Never mind dinner,” said Inspector Piper. She sensed that something had happened. “And never mind your shorthand notes, either. Look what McTeague just discovered, outdoors. The snow’s stopped, and there’s not a breath of wind. He saw something on the snow beside the sidewalk that looked like a drop or two of blood. But it wasn’t blood. And we scouted around until we found all of it.”
    The Inspector showed Miss Withers four or five bits of red pasteboard that he had wrapped carefully between the pages of an old letter in his pocket. The pieces fitted together.
    They bore a serial number, and the monogram of a theater. Miss Withers had seen that monogram before.
    “Exhibit B,” said the Inspector. He took from his vest pocket the two ticket stubs that Cousin Hubert had handed over to him.
    They matched perfectly, all three of them. Except that Hubert’s stubs bore the serial numbers R44557 and R44558,—while the torn fragments when pieced together read R446oI.
    “And this means …?”
    “It means that someone in this house went to that movie this afternoon—someone who wanted to make sure that Hubert and Aunt Abbie were there, I’ll bet. Someone who threw the stub away at the last minute, realizing that it might be dangerous to him—or herself—and trusted to the snowfall to cover it.”
    Miss Withers shook her head slowly. “But I don’t see what it means!”
    “When you do see what it means,” grinned Inspector Piper, “this case will be all washed up!”
    “Right now it could stand a lot of washing,” agreed Miss Withers.

V
Bull in the China Shop
    T HE ROUTINE INVESTIGATION WENT on, a little more swiftly now. Gretchen, the pert little blonde maid, was brought into the living room again. Her hair was combed, and she had put on a fresh apron and an air of defiance which wilted a little at the sight of Piper’s best third-degree glare.
    “Your name?”
    “Gretchen Gilbert, sir …”
    “Born Gilbert?” Inspector Piper was lighting a fresh cigar.
    “Yes, sir. No, sir. The name used to be Gilbrecht.”
    “How long have you had your job here?”
    “It will be two years next September … no, August.” Gretchen was sitting on the very edge of the sofa, her ridiculously naked-looking legs crossed at the slim ankles.
    “Like your job?”
    “Oh, yes, sir.”
    “What are your duties, exactly?”
    “Well, sir, I take care of the upstairs, all but old Mrs. Stait’s rooms, you know. She won’t let anybody in there. And I wait on the table at meals and answer the door and make myself generally useful.”
    “Generally useful to Mr. Lew now and then, also?”