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father.
    Kenyon spat into the fireplace behind the desk before replying. “No go,” he sneered. “We found ’em all locked on the inside, except for the front door. And that means windows, too.”
    â€œOh, come,” said Hume. “We’re wasting time.” He stepped to the desk and picked up the blood-crusted letter-knife. “Do you recognize this, Carmichael?”
    â€œYes, indeed. It’s the Senator’s. It’s always been on his desk, Mr. Hume.” Carmichael regarded the weapon for an instant, then turned slightly aside. “Is there anything else? I’m a trifle upset, you know.…”
    Upset! The man had no more nerves than a microbe.
    The district attorney dropped the knife on the desk. “What do you know about this crime? Any suggestions?”
    The man actually looked grieved. “I haven’t the remotest idea, Mr. Hume. Of course, you know yourself that the Senator had made many enemies during his political career.…”
    Hume said slowly: “Just what do you mean by that?”
    Carmichael looked pained. “Mean? What I said, I’m sure. The Senator was a much-hated man, as you know. There are probably scores of men—and women, too, for that matter—who might be construed as potential murderers.…”
    â€œI see,” murmured Hume. “Well, that’s all for the moment. Wait outside, please.”
    Carmichael, nodding, smiled and left the room.
    Father drew the district attorney aside, and I heard his basso agitating Hume’s ears with questions about Senator Fawcett, his intimates, the extent of his political depredations, and a series of very innocent ones about Carmichael.
    Chief Kenyon continued to patrol the floor, gazing stupidly at the ceiling and walls.
    The desk across the room fascinated me. I wondered—had been wondering all the while Carmichael was being questioned—if I dared get out of my chair and go to the desk. There were things there which, it seemed to me, simply wept for examination. I could not understand why father, the district attorney, Kenyon did not scrutinize with minute attention to detail the various objects on that wooden surface.
    I looked around. No one was watching.
    Jeremy grinned as I slipped out of my seat and quickly crossed the room. Wasting no time, dreading interruption or some stern masculine disapproval, I bent over the desk.
    Directly before the chair where Senator Fawcett’s dead body had sat, on top of the desk, lay a green blotter. Lying on the blotter, which covered half the desk-top, was a pad of heavy, creamy stationery. Its topmost sheet was clean, blank. Carefully I lifted the pad and discovered a curious thing.
    The Senator had been seated close to the edge of the desk; he had been pressed against it. And his chest-wounds had spouted blood, not on his trousers, I recalled, not on the chair, as I now observed, but on the blotter. Now, on picking up the pad of stationery I found that a copious gush of blood had soaked into the green blotter. Yet the stain was an odd one. It followed the shape of one of the lower corners of the pad. That is, with the pad lifted from the blotter, I saw a blob of dark stain on the fresh green absorbent sheet which was irregularly spherical; but there was a rectangular chunk of clean blotter at one place where the corner of the pad had rested.
    It was so clear! I looked around. Father and Hume were still conversing in undertones. Kenyon was still pacing mechanically. But Jeremy and a number of men in uniform were watching me, hard-eyed, and I hesitated. Perhaps it was unwise.… But the theory cried out for test. I made up my mind and, bending over the desk, began counting the sheets of the pad. Was it brand-new? Its appearance seemed to indicate this. And yet … There were ninety-eight sheets in the pad. On the cover, unless I were mistaken, there should be a record.…
    Yes! I was right. The cover of the pad