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Page 11
"Come, Mr. Meeks; the problem is solved. I can take you directly to the
house where your sister is living. And you may have no fears concerning
her welfare, for she is amply provided with funds -- for the present at
least."
Meeks felt joy and wonder in equal proportions.
"How did you manage it?" he asked, with admiration in his tones.
Perhaps Jolnes's only weakness was a professional pride in his wonderful
achievements in induction. He was ever ready to astound and charm his
listeners by describing his methods.
"By elimination," said Jolnes, spreading his clues upon a little table, "I
got rid of certain parts of the city to which Mrs. Snyder might have
removed. You see this hatpin? That eliminates Brooklyn. No woman
attempts to board a car at the Brooklyn Bridge without being sure that she
carries a hatpin with which to fight her way into a seat. And now I will
demonstrate to you that she could not have gone to Harlem. Behind this
door are two hooks in the wall. Upon one of these Mrs. Snyder has hung
her bonnet, and upon the other her shawl. You will observe that the
bottom of the hanging shawl has gradually made a soiled streak against the
plastered wall. The mark is clean-cut, proving that there is no fringe on
the shawl. Now, was there ever a case where a middle-aged woman, wearing
a shawl, boarded a Harlem train without there being a fringe on the shawl
to catch in the gate and delay the passengers behind her? So we eliminate
Harlem.
"Therefore I conclude that Mrs. Snyder has not moved very far away. On
this torn piece of card you see the word "Left," the letter "C," and the
number "12." Now, I happen to know that No. 12 Avenue C is a first-class
boarding house, far beyond your sister's means -- as we suppose. But then
I find this piece of a theatre programme, crumpled into an odd shape.
What meaning does it convey. None to you, very likely, Mr. Meeks; but it
is eloquent to one whose habits and training take cognizance of the small
est things.
"You have told me that your sister was a scrub woman. She scrubbed the
floors of offices and hallways. Let us assume that she procured such work
to perform in a theatre. Where is valuable jewellery lost the oftenest,
Mr. Meeks? In the theatres, of course. Look at that piece of programme,
Mr. Meeks. Observe the round impression in it. It has been wrapped
around a ring -- perhaps a ring of great value. Mrs. Snyder found the
ring while at work in the theatre. She hastily tore off a piece of a
programme, wrapped the ring carefully, and thrust it into her bosom. The
next day she disposed of it, and, with her increased means, looked about
her for a more comfortable place in which to live. When I reach thus far
in the chain I see nothing impossible about No. 12 Avenue C. It is there
we will find your sister, Mr. Meeks."
Shamrock Jolnes concluded his convincing speech with the smile of a
successful artist. Meeks's admiration was too great for words. Together
they went to No. 12 Avenue C. It was an old-fashioned brownstone house
in a prosperous and respectable neighbourhood.
They rang the bell, and on inquiring were told that no Mrs. Snyder was
known there, and that not within six months had a new occupant come to the
house.
When they reached the sidewalk again, Meeks examined the clues which he
had brought away from his sister's old room.
"I am no detective," he remarked to Jolnes as he raised the piece of
theatre programme to his nose, "but it seems to me that instead of a ring
having been wrapped in this paper it was one of those round peppermint
drops. And this piece with the address on it looks to me like the end of
a seat coupon -- No. 12, row C, left aisle."
Shamrock Jolnes had a far-away look in his eyes.
"I think you would do well to consult Juggins," said he.
"Who is Juggins?" asked Meeks.
"He is the leader," said Jolnes, "of a new modern school of detectives.
Their methods are different from ours, but it is said that Juggins has
solved some extremely puzzling cases. I will take you to him."
They found the greater Juggins in his office. He was a small man with
light hair, deeply absorbed in reading one of the bourgeois works of
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
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