me see the handkerchief."
Morgan took it from his pocket and handed it to Old Spicer.
He carefully examined the two letters in the corner.
"It's hard to say whether they are 'E. B.' or 'C. B.,'" he said at last; "but I am inclined to think the latter."
Then he put the handkerchief to his nose.
"Hum. Cheap perfume, eh?" he said.
"Yes; can't you detect it?" asked George.
"I certainly detect an odor – a peculiar odor; but I don't call it perfume."
"What do you call it, then?"
"If I were to give it a name, I should call it – "
"Well, what?"
"Chloroform."
"Chloroform!"
"Certainly."
"By Jove! I believe you're right."
"I know I am right. Where did you find this handkerchief?"
"Just behind the head of the sofa, where it had fallen; and why some one hadn't found it before is more than I can understand."
"I suppose because they didn't like to disturb the resting-place of the body."
"That must be it; for I had to move the sofa out a little to get at it."
"And you think, from the fact of having found this handkerchief, that there was a woman with the murderers?"
"I think there may have been. The male portion of humanity, as a general thing, do not go to the extremity of initialing their pocket-handkerchiefs, and few men carry a piece of cambric so fine as this. Then, too, ordinarily, a man is not armed with more than one handkerchief at a time – especially those of the class of citizens that made the Ernst saloon their headquarters. So, speculating on such a basis and also on the fact that all of the seven handkerchiefs might reasonably be called those of females, I think there is little doubt but one woman at least, assisted materially in this murderous work."
"I am inclined to agree with you, George. By the way, did you manage to learn anything more about that trap-door and secret tunnel?"
"Very little. As you didn't want me to explore it when any of the regular force were about, I was obliged to confine myself to questioning such of the widow's patrons and neighbors as I thought might have some information on the subject to impart."
"Well, you found out something from them?"
"Yes, one fellow had a somewhat romantic story to tell. Years ago, he said, when the Sunday liquor-law was so strictly enforced in this city, Mrs. Ernst and her second husband, who was then living, built an immense underground vault in the back-yard, at some distance from the house, and that trap-door opens into a tunnel leading to this vault, which, by the way, is capable of accommodating quite a number of persons.
"The thing was a grand success. There were, of course, strong suspicions that the woman and her last two husbands were violating the law by selling liquor and beer on Sunday, but no evidence of a positive character could be obtained, and the reason was that this great underground chamber was so secluded and so vigilantly guarded that the entrance to it was known to only the best and most reliable customers.
"The thirsty, on a Sunday afternoon or evening, were seen to enter the basement, but all traces of them thereafter for hours were lost. A close watch, and even a personal inspection of the premises, were unavailing, inasmuch as the patrons could not be seen anywhere. They were secreted in the underground vault, indulging in all the liquid nourishment they wanted, while the searchers were vainly peering into this room and that of the basement. A cart-load of ashes, you remember, now partially fills up the entrance to the vault."
"Yes, I remember the ashes, and I have no doubt there is exactly such a vault as your informant describes, and that it was used for the purpose he names; but I am inclined to believe it has been used for other purposes since. Of that, however, hereafter. What more have you to tell me, George?"
"I understand that quite a number of the tenants over there are going to move within the next few days."
"Is that so? Did you learn which ones?"
"No; but the Neustrom family are among them."
"Ah, indeed! Well, on the whole, I am not surprised to hear it," and the old detective became very thoughtful.
CHAPTER V.
SETH STRICKET MAKES HIS REPORT
At length, rousing himself, Old Spicer turned to Stricket, and said:
"Well, Seth, I suppose you have something interesting to tell us?"
"I have managed to pick up a little information," was the modest reply.
"Very good; let's have it."
"George has been talking about the seven handkerchiefs. He has told you that some, if not all of them, belong to women. I can tell you what woman one of them, at least, belongs to."
"The deuce you can! Who is she?"
"Mrs. Otto Webber."
"What! the wife of the cigar-maker who lives directly over the barroom?"
"The same."
"You are sure you are right?"
"I have positively identified one of the handkerchiefs as belonging to her. And more than that, I have discovered parties who are ready to swear that they have seen the cloth found about Mrs. Ernst's head in the possession of the Webbers within the past forty-eight hours."
"You are getting on fast, Seth."
"I am not through yet."
"Well, what next?"
"Stairs, you know, lead directly from the apartments occupied by Mrs. Ernst to those occupied by the Webbers."
"Yes, I remember."
"Well, Monday night Mr. Webber called on the murdered woman and informed her that he was going to leave her house, but had found another tenant for her."
"I know he did."
"He admits now that he stayed in the saloon for some time, and drank liquor with the old lady; but he claims that she was in the best of spirits when he left her, which, he says, was before ten o'clock."
"Does Bollmann, or any of the regular force suspect Webber?"
"Yes."
"Have they let him find it out?"
"Yes."
"Thunder! how far have they gone in the matter?"
"Both Webber and his wife were brought to the police office by Detective Brewer early this evening."
"Do you know what followed?"
"Chief Bollmann, Coroner Mix, and the detectives
