“Does that help you?” she asked. 

 “Thirdly, he is blonde.” 

 “Well?” 

 “Then we have only to peruse the passenger-list, and proceed by process of elimination.” 

 I had that list in my pocket. I took it out and glanced through it. Then I remarked: 

 “I find that there are only thirteen men on the passenger-list whose names begin with the letter R.” 

 “Only thirteen?” 

 “Yes, in the first cabin. And of those thirteen, I find that nine of them are accompanied by women, children or servants. That leaves only four who are traveling alone. First, the Marquis de Raverdan——” 

 “Secretary to the American Ambassador,” interrupted Miss Nelly. “I know him.” 

 “Major Rawson,” I continued. 

 “He is my uncle,” some one said. 

 “Mon. Rivolta.” 

 “Here!” exclaimed an Italian, whose face was concealed beneath a heavy black beard. 

 Miss Nelly burst into laughter, and exclaimed: “That gentleman can scarcely be called a blonde.” 

 “Very well, then,” I said, “we are forced to the conclusion that the guilty party is the last one on the list.” 

 “What is his name?” 

 “Mon. Rozaine. Does anyone know him?” 

 No one answered. But Miss Nelly turned to the taciturn young man, whose attentions to her had annoyed me, and said: 

 “Well, Monsieur Rozaine, why do you not answer?” 

 All eyes were now turned upon him. He was a blonde. I must confess that I myself felt a shock of surprise, and the profound silence that followed her question indicated that the others present also viewed the situation with a feeling of sudden alarm. However, the idea was an 

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