It was not until the third day of his surveillance, during which
passage of time he had waited anxiously for a message from New York
without getting it, that the colonel felt his patience was about to be
rewarded. The detective was a fisherman in more ways than one.

Trade had been rather brisk in the shop--possibly because of gruesome
curiosity--when, one afternoon, a man entered who seemed to know
several in the place. Yet he did not talk with them, beyond a mere
passing of the time of day, but went about nervously from showcase to
counter and repeated the journey. When Mr. Kettridge asked him at what
he desired to look he replied there was nothing in particular--that he
had in mind a gift, but, as yet, had decided on nothing.

"Look about as you please," was the courteous invitation he received,
and the man availed himself of it.

Of medium build, yet with the appearance of having lived more in the
open than does the average man, his face had, yet, a strange pallor not
in keeping with his robust frame. And his manner was certainly nervous.

"Now what," mused the colonel to himself, "is _he_ fishing for?"

That day there was more than the usual number of people in the
store--many of them undoubtedly curiosity seekers, who came into price
certain articles ostensibly, but who, really, wanted to stare at the
place where the bloodstains had been scrubbed away.

And at this spot the robust man stared longer than did some of the
others, the colonel thought. Did he hope that some spirit of the poor,
murdered woman might still be lingering there, to whisper to him what