"Your name's familiar to me, Mr. Creighton," said Andrews, and stretched forth a long, bony arm with a calloused hand at the end of it. He was a mild-eyed individual with a soft, sweeping, tobacco-stained mustache. "I read the New York papers pretty reg'lar and I've followed one or two of your cases."

Norvallis was a stout, prosperous-looking man of forty-odd, a typical product of country politics. His manner was carefully bluff and hearty and characterized by a sort of _bonhommie_ that was useful in impressing voters with the fact that he was a pretty good fellow, his close-set eyes sparkled with intelligence that his low brow defined as cunning rather than wisdom, and there were puffy semicircles beneath them that told of parties not entirely political.

"Your friend Krech told us the circ.u.mstances under which you were sent for," broke in Norvallis before Creighton could find some polite acknowledgment of the Sheriff's interest. "Must have been quite a shock to you to learn of Mr. Varr's death."

"It certainly was. Fortunately for my peace of mind, I took care yesterday to warn him against taking undue risks. He disregarded the advice."

"Oh. You warned him? You had some reason to believe his life was in danger?"

"Nothing so definite as that, but it was apparent that he had some sort of a queer, tough customer on his trail and it's always in order to take reasonable precautions."

"A queer customer, eh? This monk we've been hearing so much about!

What opinion have you formed about that?"

"None at all," replied Creighton promptly.

Norvallis did not quite conceal the disappointment he felt at the flat negative. He changed the subject.

"I think you have a piece of evidence that should properly be turned over to me. Didn't Mr. Krech send you an anonymous note that Mr. Varr received from his enemy?"

"Yes." Creighton took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Norvallis. "There it is, in good order. I had it tested for fingerprints this morning before I left the city."

"Find any?"

"Only those made by Mr. Varr himself. Further than that, the microscope showed that the surface of the paper had been uniformly abraded before it was written on, as if the crook had taken a rubber eraser and removed all traces of any prints that might have been there already."

"Cautious devil, wasn't he?"

Creighton did not answer. His eye had suddenly fallen on an object imperfectly concealed beneath a blank sheet of paper at Norvallis'

elbow.

"Is that the knife that was used?" he asked.

"Yes." The county official rather reluctantly uncovered the exhibit.

"Don't touch!"

"No fear!" Creighton rea.s.sured him.

He moved nearer to the ghastly souvenir and bent over it. A fine bit of Oriental workmanship that any museum might have valued; the haft was of silver, exquisitely chased, the blade was straight and slender, narrowing to a needlelike point, so that it belonged rather to the stiletto type than the dagger. An inscription ran lengthwise down the steel, which was of a distinct bluish tinge where it was not darkly stained. About an inch from the tip a tiny triangular nick had been made in one of the sharp edges, the only flaw in the weapon's perfection. Creighton looked up from it to meet the Sheriff's speculative eye.

"Can you read what it says on the blade, Mr. Creighton?"

"No! I have my limitations."

"It means, 'I bring peace'!" The officer tugged at his mustache and smiled. "Miss Copley told us that. It belongs to her."

"Well, I expect she won't want it back."

Norvallis put down the anonymous letter which he had been reading. His eyes were alight with satisfaction.

"This case will make people talk when it gets into the papers, Mr.

Creighton!"

"Sure to."

"Have you any other information, or evidence, or exhibit, for me?"

"Not a sc.r.a.p."

"Mr. Varr's death must alter your plans, of course. May I ask if you are returning to New York this afternoon or evening?"

Creighton knew perfectly well that Norvallis had been eager to put that question since the moment he had come into the room. He shook his head smilingly.

"Mr. Bolt has invited me to do what I can to recover the notebook that was stolen from Mr. Varr's desk."

"Oh." Norvallis exchanged a quick glance with the Sheriff. "Then, in a sense, we'll be working together. Possibly it hasn't occurred to Mr.

Bolt that when the murderer is found, the thief will be found."

"Yes, he knows that. But my inquiry may diverge from yours, Mr.

Norvallis. It may have to go farther than yours. Of course, you realize that yourself."

"Eh? Ah--yes, yes!" said the other blankly.

"I expect our relations will be both amicable and of mutual benefit,"

continued Creighton cheerfully. "If I turn up anything good I'll let you know, and I can hope for as much from you, can't I?"

"Er--well, I don't know about that." Norvallis looked pink and uncomfortable as he began to fidget with the papers on the table. "I don't know about that, Mr. Creighton. I may not feel free--er--no, on the whole I think it would be preferable if we conducted our investigations independently of each other. Yes, that would be better!" He had an air of relief as he got that dictum off his chest.

"All right," agreed Creighton, still cheerfully. He surmised the reason for the official's embarra.s.sment, the police already knew, or thought they knew, the ident.i.ty of the murderer, and it was a secret they proposed to guard jealously until they could cover themselves with glory by making an arrest. He did not blame them in the least, and accepted the rebuff good-humoredly. "As you please, Mr. Norvallis."

The two men by the window apparently had concluded their examination.

One of them sauntered over to the table and reported.

"Nothing much there, sir. There's a few prints made by the butler opening and shutting the doors."

"Just as I expected," said Norvallis composedly. "Lucky we don't have to rely on fingerprints in this case, Mr. Creighton."

"Found none at all?"

"Not one. I'll make you a present of that bit of news."

"Thank you for nothing," grinned Creighton, then added mischievously, "Of course, before you can find fingerprints you have to know where to look for them."

"Oh."

"Yes. You stick to that window and Varr's desk and the hilt of this dagger--and leave the less obvious places to me."

"Indeed. I suppose it would be useless for me to ask you to designate some of those less obvious places?"