"I have lost everything but my name and address," I parried. "What
do you want them for? Publication?"

"Oh, no; dear, no!" he said, shocked at my misapprehension. "Merely
for my own enlightenment. I like to gather data of this kind and
draw my own conclusions. Most interesting and engrossing. Once
or twice I have forestalled the results of police investigation--but
entirely for my own amusement."

I nodded tolerantly. Most of us have hobbies; I knew a man once who
carried his handkerchief up his sleeve and had a mania for old
colored prints cut out of Godey's Lady's Book.

"I use that inductive method originated by Poe and followed since
with such success by Conan Doyle. Have you ever read Gaboriau?
Ah, you have missed a treat, indeed. And now, to get down to
business, what is the name of our escaped thief and probable
murderer?"

"How on earth do I know?" I demanded impatiently. "He didn't write
it in blood anywhere, did he?"

The little man looked hurt and disappointed.

"Do you mean to say," he asked, "that the pockets of those clothes
are entirely empty?" The pockets! In the excitement I had forgotten
entirely the sealskin grip which the porter now sat at my feet, and
I had not investigated the pockets at all. With the inquisitive
man's pencil taking note of everything that I found, I emptied them
on the opposite seat.