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"By elimination?" I echoed. "Show me." "Simple as two and two," she assented. "Out of the door? No; Mrs. Griggsby; so out of the window. Down? No; you told why; he would be seen; so, up. Ladder? No; too big for one man to handle or to hide; so a rope." "But the hole in the sash?" "You showed me the only way to close that lock from the outside.
Everything was in that room that should have been there except Clayte and the suitcase." The babel of complaint and suggestion broke out as I finished, exactly as it had done when I got to this point before: "The Griggsby woman ought to be kept under surveillance"; "The clerk, the house servants ought to be watched," and so on, and so on.
"Bath and bedroom," I said, "that suite has three windows, seven stories above the ground. I found them all locked not mere latches the St. Dunstan has burglar-proof locks. No disturbance in the room; all neat, in place, the door closed with the usual spring lock; and I had to get Mrs. Griggsby to move, since she was tacking the carpet right at the threshold.
We found her once more adjusting turban and veil before the mirror of Clayte's dresser. She faced around, and announced, smiling steadily across at me, "Your man Clayte left this room while Mrs. Griggsby was kneeling almost on its threshold left it by that window over there. He got to the roof by means of a rope and grappling hook.
For my part, our agency had been able to get hold of three women who had seen Clayte and remembered the event; Mrs. Griggsby; a stenographer at the bank; and the woman who sold newspapers at the St. Dunstan corner. Miss Wallace's suggestion had proven itself, for these three agreed with fair exactness, and the description run in the late editions of the city papers was less vague than the others.
"Get busy and dig out any women clerks of the bank, stenographers, scrub-women there, or whatever, and ask them particularly as to the exact shade of Clayte's hair and eyes. Get Mrs. Griggsby again at the St. Dunstan. I want at least three women who can give these points exactly. Exactly, understand?" He did, and I thanked Miss Wallace for her suggestion.
Griggsby, a woman at work mending carpet on the seventh floor which is his saw him come out of the elevator carrying it, and let himself into his room. There the trail ends." "Ends?" As my voice halted young Gilbert's word came like a bullet. "The trail can't end unless the man was there." "Or the suitcase," little old Sillsbee quavered, and Worth Gilbert gave him a swift, half-humorous glance.
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