"
"Heard him?"
"Yes' sir. Sobbing, like."
The nerves of Average Jones gave a sharp "kickback," like a
mis-cranked motor-car. His trend of thought had suddenly been
reversed. The devious and scientific slayer of Telfik Bey in tears?
It seemed completely out of the picture.
"You may go," said he, and seating himself at the desk, proceeded to
an examination of his newly acquired property. The newspapers in
the scrap basket, mainly copies of the Evening Register, seemed to
contain, upon cursory examination, nothing germane to the issue.
But, scattered among them, the searcher found a number of fibrous
chips. They were short and thick; such chips as might be made by
cutting a bamboo pole into cross lengths, convenient for carrying.
"The 'spirit-wand,"' observed Average Jones with gusto. "That was
the 'little package,' of course."
Next, he turned his attention to the desk. It was bare, except for
a few scraps of paper and some writing implements. But in a crevice
there shone a glimmer of glass.
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