"What's all this, Gaspard?" asked the detective. "I hear you're going back to France." 

 "I? Oh, no. New York suits me much better." 

 "But what are these trunks doing here?" 

 Gaspard looked particularly foolish. 

 "They are the property of a friend—a lady. To tell the truth, I hope to marry her. A charming girl, monsieur; and innocent as a dove." 

 "Why does she send her trunks here?" 

 "Ah, that I do not know. It was not agreed upon." 

 "Have you any idea what is in them?" 

 "Her wardrobe. Ah, she is extravagant. She buys many dresses. But then, what would you have? When one is young and beautiful—" 

 Gaspard finished his sentence with a sweep of the arms. 

 "They are heavy," said Nick, lifting one of the trunks and setting it crosswise on a lounge. 

 He took a bunch of keys from his pocket. Gaspard seemed aghast. 

 "You would not open it?" he cried. 

 "Perhaps it won't be necessary," said Nick. "This may answer." 

 He drew a knife from his pocket and opened one of the blades, which was sharpened like a very large nut-pick. 

 With a sudden movement, he struck this into the bottom of the trunk, and then withdrew it. 

 A dark red stream followed the blade when it was withdrawn. The end of the trunk projected over the side of the couch, and the red fluid dripped upon the carpet. 

 "My God!" exclaimed Gaspard. "It is blood!" 

 "So it would seem," said Nick, quietly. 

 He set the trunk upon the floor and snapped back the lock with a skeleton key. 

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