“How, then?” I asked, for the tone implied a mental reservation.

“I’m not saying. But they do say every man has a secret side to his life, and why should Mr. Gately be a lone exception?”

“A woman?” asked Norah, always harking back to her basic suspicion.

Foxy Jim Hudson favored her with that blank stare which not infrequently was his answer to an unwelcome question, and which, perhaps, had a share in earning him his sobriquet.

Then he laughed, and said, “You’ve been reading detective stories, miss. And you remember how they always say ‘Churches lay femmy!’ Well, go ahead and church, if you like. But be prepared for a sad and sorrowful result.”

The man was obviously deeply moved, and his big, homely face worked with emotion.

But as he would tell us nothing further, and as Norah and I had finished our rather unproductive search of the rooms, we went back to my office.

Here Norah showed me what she had taken from the waste basket.

“I’ll give it back to him, if you say so,” she offered; “but he could do nothing with it, and maybe I can.”

It was only a tiny scrap of pinkish paper, thin and greatly crumpled. I took it.

“Be careful,” warned Norah; “I don’t suppose it could show finger prints, but anyway, it’s a sort of a kind of a clew.”

“But what is it?” I asked, blankly, as I held the crumpled paper gingerly in thumb and forefinger.

“It’s a powder-paper,” vouchsafed Norah, briefly.

“A what?”

“A powder-paper. Women carry them,—they come in little books. That’s one of the leaves. They’re to rub on your face, and the powder comes off on your nose or cheeks.”

“Is that so? I never saw any before.”

“Lots of girls use them.” Norah’s clear, wholesome complexion refuted any idea of her needing such, and she spoke a bit scornfully.

“Proving once more the presence of what Friend Hudson calls a femmy,” I smiled.

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