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“Aside from speculation, Burke,” said Clarendon, “what have you found that has not been widely circulated in the news accounts?”

IN answer, Burke reached for the pile of clippings. He drew out one — evidently an item taken from an old newspaper. He read it aloud.

“Sapphire changes hands. Lloyd Harriman, wealthy New York clubman, is now the owner of the famous purple sapphire. He purchased it at auction, for eighteen hundred dollars. Jewel is alleged to be jinxed, but Harriman says, ‘Blah!’”

“Evidently a tabloid account, with a photograph above it.”

“That’s right,” said Burke, grinning. He displayed the clipping, which showed Lloyd Harriman, garbed in white flannels, holding the gem before the eyes of two admiring young ladies.

“What of the purple sapphire?” questioned Clarendon.

“It’s jinxed all right,” replied Burke, referring to another pile of clippings. “Sounds like the same old stuff, though.

“Belonged to King Alphonse of Antaria, at the time he was bounced from the throne. Was sold to an English noblewoman, who was killed in an airplane accident.

“You know how those stories circulate. But the fact remains that Lloyd Harriman committed suicide several months after he acquired it.”

“What about Harriman’s suicide?”

“Well, there’s a question in my mind about that. I’ve got clippings on it.

“It looked like a suicide, right enough, but here’s a new theory suggested by a tabloid.

“Since Horace Chatham murdered Seth Wilkinson, maybe he knows something about Lloyd Harriman’s death. It’s a wild idea, but—” Burke paused in thought, then added “- but Chatham was in Florida when Harriman died; and I can’t find any trace of that purple sapphire after the time Harriman bought it.”

“So you suppose—”

“I don’t know what to suppose,” admitted Burke frankly. “I’m no detective, although when I was a police reporter I knew as much as any dick on the force. I don’t swallow this jinx stuff, as a rule; yet sometimes it seems to work.

“But let’s suppose that Chatham got hold of that sapphire. Then something would have happened to him.

Instead, the evidence shows that he killed Wilkinson.”

“Burke,” interposed Clarendon, “your ideas are interesting, even though they are scarcely tangible. There is a definite angle to this situation, however.

“We know that Harriman purchased the sapphire at a fraction of its value. Therefore it is possible that he was pursued, not by a fanciful danger, but by living men who sought to get the jewel—”

“Wait!” exclaimed Burke. He pulled a clipping from the pile that he had previously consulted, and showed it to Clarendon:

Harriman was in a mix-up, not long after he bought the sapphire. He was held up on a road in Florida.

Some bandits searched him, and took fifty dollars and his watch. He didn’t have much money with him that night.

“Keep those clippings, Burke,” Clarendon said, returning the slip. “We may find a connection there. But in the meantime, let us consider this case of Chatham’s — and the murder of Seth Wilkinson. Your point is well chosen; that the motive was not sufficient for Chatham to kill Wilkinson. We also have the question of the note.

“Why did Chatham leave it there?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Burke.

“Have you seen the note?”

“I haven’t been out of the office. The police have the note, all right. They’re holding it as evidence—”

“You know them at headquarters — through your former connection with the Clarion?”

“I know all of them.”

“Come along then.” George Clarendon rose from his chair. Clyde Burke followed, and a few minutes later the two men were riding in a cab to police headquarters.

“The police have two letters from Chatham to Wilkinson,” Burke mentioned as they traveled along Broadway. “Those and the note are being held. I think we can get a look at them.”

CLARENDON nodded, but said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought. He remained silent until they arrived at headquarters.

Burke led the way into the building. He inquired for Detective Steve Lang, and when the man appeared, Burke introduced him to George Clarendon.

“Whatcha doing now, Clyde?” the detective asked Burke.

“Newspaper correspondent,” replied the ex-reporter tersely. “Thought I might be able to send out some dope on this Wilkinson murder. Say! Could you let me see that note and those letters that Chatham wrote—”

“Can’t let you see the originals,” replied Lang, “but we’ve got photostats. All the police reporters have seen them. You’re one of the crowd. You can have a look at them.”

He conducted the two men into the office, and produced the photostats.

He pointed out the fact that Horace Chatham’s note was dated on the twenty-third, indicating that it might have been written after midnight. He also made a brief comparison between the signatures on the letters and that on the note.

Burke passed the photostats to George Clarendon. The latter looked at them, nodded, and returned them. He was evidently satisfied.

“Thanks, Steve,” said Burke. “I just wanted to make sure about the letters. The newspapers reported them correctly; just a couple of friendly letters written by Chatham when he was in Florida.”

“That’s all,” replied the detective. “They don’t mean nothing, except that the two guys corresponded a bit.”

Clarendon and Burke rode back uptown.

“I’ll drop you at your office,” said Clarendon. “Keep on this job until you hear from me again.”

“What did you think of the evidence?” questioned Burke.

“Two letters and a promissory note,” replied Clarendon thoughtfully.

“Both written by Horace Chatham.”

“Burke,” said Clarendon thoughtfully, “what would you do if you were on the detective force, and in possession of those documents?”

“I’d do just as the detectives have done. Consider the promissory note as a business transaction between Chatham and Wilkinson, the letters, with the same signature, as evidence of friendship between the two men.”

“You would not go further?”

“I don’t believe so. It is obvious that Chatham wrote to Wilkinson, and later gave him the note. I only wonder why Chatham left the note there after the murder.”

The cab stopped in front of the building where Burke’s office was located. Clarendon placed his hand on the other man’s arm, just as Burke was about to leave the taxi.

“One moment, Burke,” Clarendon spoke in a low voice. “You remember that you said you would like to reject the obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you regard it as obvious that Chatham wrote both the letters and the promissory note. You believe that fact, just as the police believe it.

“They looked at the signatures just to check up — and I saw you do the same.

“You were interested in the contents of the letters and the amount of the note. But I was interested in the signatures alone. Thus I learned—”

Clarendon paused and looked steadily at Burke. The ex-reporter had opened the door of the cab, and had one foot on the step. But now he hesitated in astonishment, as something began to dawn upon him.

“What I learned must be kept secret by you and myself,” said Clarendon. “Both the letters and the note bore the same signature— yet there were minute differences between the signature on the note and those on the letters. Therefore I believe—”

“What?” gasped Burke.

“That the note signed by Horace Chatham was a forgery!”

With his subtle smile, George Clarendon gently urged his companion to the street. Clyde Burke stood openmouthed as the door of the cab closed.