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desk in the sunny living-room. Bob Eden joined them.

      "By gad," the boy said, "not much dust on it, is there? Must have been put there recently. Holley, here's where your keys come in handy."

      It proved a simple matter for Holley to master the lock. The three men crowded close.

      Chan lifted out a cheap toilet case, with the usual articles—a comb and brush, razors, shaving cream, tooth paste, then a few shirts, socks and handkerchiefs. He examined the laundry mark.

      "D—thirty-four," he announced.

      "Meaning nothing," Eden said.

      Chan was lifting a brown suit of clothes from the bottom of the bag.

      "Made to order by tailor in New York," he said, after an inspection of the inner coat pocket. "Name of purchaser, however, is blotted out by too much wearing." He took from the side pockets a box of matches and a half-empty packet of inexpensive cigarettes. "Finishing the coat," he added.

      He turned his attention to the vest and luck smiled upon him. From the lower right-hand pocket he removed an old-fashioned watch, attached to a heavy chain. The timepiece was silent; evidently it had been unwound for some time. Quickly he pried open the back case, and a little grunt of satisfaction escaped him. He passed the watch to Bob Eden.

      "Presented to Jerry Delaney by his Old Friend, Honest Jack McGuire," read Eden in a voice of triumph. "And the date—August twenty-sixth, 1913."

      "Jerry Delaney!" cried Holley. "By heaven, we're getting on now. The name of the third man was Jerry Delaney."

      "Yet to be proved he was the third man," Chan cautioned. "This, however, may help."

      He produced a soiled bit of colored paper—a passenger's receipt for a Pullman compartment. "Compartment B—car 198," he read. "Chicago to Barstow." He turned it over. "Date when used, February eighth, present year."

      Bob Eden turned to a calendar. "Great stuff," he cried. "Jerry Delaney left Chicago on February eighth—a week ago Sunday night. That got him into Barstow last Wednesday morning, February eleventh—the morning of the day he was killed. Some detectives, we are."

      Chan was still busy with the vest. He brought forth a key ring with a few keys, then a worn newspaper clipping. The latter he handed to Eden.

      "Read it, please?" he suggested.

      Bob Eden read:

      "Theater-goers of Los Angeles will be delighted to know that in the cast of One Night in June, the musical comedy opening at the Mason next Monday night, will be Miss Norma Fitzgerald. She has the role of Marcia, which calls for a rich soprano voice, and her vast army of admirers hereabouts know in advance how well she will acquit herself in such a part. Miss Fitzgerald has been on the stage twenty years—she went on as a mere child—and has appeared in such productions as The Love Cure."

      Eden paused. "There's a long list." He resumed reading:

      "Matinees of One Night in June will be on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and for this engagement a special scale of prices has been inaugurated."

      Eden put the clipping down on the table. "Well, that's one more fact about Jerry Delaney. He was interested in a soprano. So many men are—but still, it may lead somewhere."

      "Poor Jerry," said Holley, looking down at the rather pitiful pile of the man's possessions. "He won't need a hair-brush, or a razor, or a gold watch where he's gone." He took up the watch and regarded it thoughtfully. "Honest Jack McGuire. I seem to have heard that name somewhere."

      Chan was investigating the trousers pockets. He turned them out one by one, but found nothing.

      "Search is now complete," he announced. "Humbly suggest we put all back as we found it. We have made delightful progress."

      "I'll say we have," cried Eden, with enthusiasm. "More progress than I ever thought possible. Last night we knew only that Madden had killed a man. Today we know the name of the man." He paused. "I don't suppose there can be any doubt about it?" he inquired.

      "Hardly," Holley replied. "A man doesn't part with such personal possessions as a hair-brush and a razor as long as he has any further use for them. If he's through with them, he's through with life. Poor devil!"

      "Let's go over it all again before we put these things away," said Eden. "We've learned that the man Madden feared, the man he killed, was Jerry Delaney. What do we know of Delaney? He was not in very affluent circumstances, though he did have his clothes made by a tailor. Not a smart tailor, judging by the address. He smoked Corsican cigarettes. Honest Jack McGuire, whoever he may be, was an old friend of his, and thought so highly of him he gave Jerry a watch. What else? Delaney was interested in an actress named Norma Fitzgerald. A week ago last Sunday he left Chicago at eight P.M.—the Limited—for Barstow, riding in Compartment B, car 198. And that, I guess, about sums up what we know of Jerry Delaney."

      Charlie Chan smiled. "Very good," he said. "A splendid list, rich with promise. But one fact you have missed complete."

      "What's that?" inquired Eden.

      "One very easy fact," continued Chan. "Take this vest once on Jerry Delaney. Examine close—what do you discover?"

      Carefully Eden looked over the vest, then with a puzzled air handed it to Holley, who did the same. Holley shook his head.

      "Nothing?" asked Chan, laughing silently. "Can it be you are not such able detectives as I thought? Here—place hand in pocket—"

      Bob Eden thrust his fingers into the pocket indicated by Chan. "It's chamois-lined," he said. "The watch pocket, that's all."

      "True enough," answered Chan. "And on the left, I presume."

      Eden looked foolish. "Oh," he admitted, "I get you. The watch pocket is on the right."

      "And why," persisted Charlie. "With coat buttoned, certain man can not reach watch easily when it reposes at left. Therefore he instructs tailor, make pocket for watch on right, please." He began to fold up the clothes in order to return them to the bag. "One other fact we know about Jerry Delaney, and it may be used in tracing his movements the day he came to this ranch. Jerry Delaney had peculiarity to be left-handed."

      "Great Scott!" cried Holley suddenly. They turned to him. He had picked up the watch again and was staring at it. "Honest Jack McGuire—I remember now."

      "You know this McGuire?" inquired Chan quickly.

      "I met him, long ago," Holley replied. "The first night I brought Mr. Eden out here to the ranch, he asked me if I'd ever seen P.J. Madden before. I said that twelve years ago I saw Madden in a gambling house on East Forty-fourth Street, New York, dolled up like a prince and betting his head off. Madden himself remembered the occasion when I spoke to him about it."

      "But McGuire?" Chan wanted to know.

      "I recall now that the name of the man who ran that gambling house was Jack McGuire. Honest Jack, he had the nerve to call himself. It was a queer joint—that was later proved. But Jack McGuire was Delaney's old friend—he gave Jerry a watch as a token of their friendship. Gentlemen, this is interesting. McGuire's gambling house on Forty-fourth Street comes back into the life of P.J. Madden."

      Chapter XV. Will Holley's Theory

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      When the bag was completely repacked and again securely locked, Bob Eden climbed with it to the dusty attic. He reappeared, the trap-door was closed and the stepladder removed. The three men faced one another, pleased with their morning's work.

      "It's after twelve," said Holley. "I must hurry back to town."

      "About to make heartfelt suggestion you remain at lunch," remarked Chan.

      Holley shook his head. "That's kind of you, Charlie, but I wouldn't think of it. You must be about fed-up on this cooking proposition, and I won't

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