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together in a boyish, if grim, way.
    I moved a bit to get closer to the desk. Not two feet to one side, within arm’s-reach of the chair in which the dead man had sat, was a coffee-table. On this table stood an electric percolator and a cup and saucer on a tray. With curious fingers I touched the side of the percolator; it was still warm. I looked into the cup; there were coffee-grounds on the muddy bottom.
    My theory was climbing like the rope of the Hindu fakir! I fervently hoped that it would prove more permanent. For if this were true …
    I turned away with the triumph in my eyes, I am afraid, plainly visible; and District Attorney Hume regarded me almost with anger. I believe he meant either to rebuke me or question me, when something occurred which altered the entire course of the investigation.

5. THE SIXTH LETTER
    Its discovery was retarded for a little while.
    From the corridor outside came a buzzing and shuffling of feet, and the next moment one of Kenyon’s men in the doorway muttered apologetically and stepped aside, genuflecting as if he were in the presence of royalty. All conversation ceased; and I wondered who this mighty individual might be who was able to make a stolid creature cloaked in authority give ground.
    But the man who appeared in the doorway an instant later was scarcely formidable in appearance. He was a rosy, totally bald little old man with the curved applecheeks usually associated with indulgent grandfathers, and a comfortable little paunch that hung over his thighs like a benediction. His clothes did not fit, and his topcoat was rather the worse for wear.
    And then I noticed his eyes, and instantly reformed my first impression of him. This man was a force to be reckoned with in any company. The blue slits below his brows framed two chips of ice; hard, merciless, the eyes of a sage whose knowledge was all evil. They were more than merely cunning; they were omnipotently satanic. And they became the more terrible because of the cheery smile on his grandfather-cheeks, and the carefully senile bob and wag of his pink skull.
    I was astounded to observe John Hume—the reformer, cross the room and seize the fat dimpled little hands of the old man with every evidence of respect and pleasure. Was he acting? It did not seem possible that he could have escaped analyzing the pitiless chill of the old man’s eyes. But perhaps his own youth and etnergy and righteousness were as false as the newcomer’s smiles.… I glanced at father, but could detect nothing critical on his dead, ugly, honest face.
    â€œJust heard the news,” piped the little old man in a childish treble. “Terrible, John, terrible. I hurried over as soon as I could. Any progress?”
    â€œPrecious little,” said Hume, abashed. He piloted the newcomer across the room. “Miss Thumm, may I present the man who holds my political future in his hands?—Rufus Cotton. And this, Rufe, is Inspector Thumm of New York.”
    Rufus Cotton ducked, and smiled, and clasped my hands, and said: “This is an unexpected pleasure, my dear,” and then his fat cheeks sagged and he added: “Terrible thing, this,” and turned to father, still retaining my hand. I disengaged is as inoffensively as I could, and he seemed not to notice. “So this is the great Inspector Thumm! Heard of you, Inspector, heard of you. My old friend in the City, Commissioner Burbage—your time, wasn’t he?—used to talk at great length about you.”
    â€œHrrumph,” said father, pleased as Punch. “You’re the man who’s behind Hume, hey? I’ve heard of you, too, Cotton.”
    â€œYes,” squealed Rufus Cotton, “John is going to be the next Senator from Tilden County. I’m doing my little bit to put him over. And now this thing—dead, dear!” He clucked like an old hen, and all the while his eyes, with their glittering venom, did not flicker. “Now, if