The pockets on the doors yielded nothing. He turned up the
cushion and felt under it: nothing. On the floor, however, was a woman's
handkerchief, filmy and small, and without the least odour clinging to
it.
"Strange!" Harleston muttered. "They are always covered with perfume."
Moreover, while a very expensive handkerchief, it was without
initial--which also was most unusual.
He put the bit of lace into his coat and went on with the search:
Three American Beauty roses, somewhat crushed and broken, were in the
far corner. From certain abrasions in the stems, he concluded that they
had been torn, or loosed, from a woman's corsage.
He felt again--then he struck a match, leaning well inside the cab so
as to hide the light as much as possible.
The momentary flare disclosed a square envelope standing on edge and
close in against the seat. Extinguishing the match, he caught it up.
It was of white linen of superior quality, without superscription, and
sealed; the contents were very light--a single sheet of paper, likely.
The handkerchief, the crushed roses, the unaddressed, sealed
envelope--the horse, the empty and deserted cab, standing before a
vacant lot, at one o'clock in the morning! Surely any one of them was
enough to stir the imagination; together they were a tantalizing
mystery, calling for solution and beckoning one on.
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