it was the same. There was no need to apply any finer tests.
“I remember him now,” said Jones, looking from one photograph to the other, “very well. He was a quiet, well-behaved chap-had been captain of a little tramp steamer, I believe. He had a perfect mania for cutting pieces out of newspapers and pasting them in a scrap-book. He spent all his leisure time that way. Oh, yes; I remember, too, he tried to escape, but his pal went back on him and left him layin’ out yonder by the wall. His pal was a bad one, he was; he got away and I’ve often wondered what become of him. Here he is.”
He swung open another compartment, and I found myself staring at Tremaine!
Not until I was quite near New York did I recover sufficiently from the effects of this discovery to heed the cry of the train-boy as he went through the coaches with the evening papers.
“All about th’ Edgemere murder!” he was crying, and the name caught my ear.
“Edgemere,” I repeated to myself. “Edgemere. I’ve heard that name somewhere.”
Then in a flash I remembered; and in a moment more the whole story of the tragedy of the night before—the murder of Graham and the theft of Mrs. Delroy’s necklace—lay before me. With what intensity of interest I read it can be easily imagined; I was shaken, nervous, horror-stricken. That there was some connection between this second tragedy and the one in suite fourteen I did not doubt; and I read and
