"On a watch."

"Where's the watch now?" and the detective flicked the ashes from a
cigar the reporter had given him. Daley was down in the jewelry store,
interviewing the clerks while Darcy was on the grill up above.

"The watch," murmured Darcy. "It--it's in her hand," and he nodded in
the direction of the silent figure downstairs.

"The watch that is still ticking?"

"Yes, but the funny part of it is that the watch wasn't going last
night, when I planned to start work on it. I forget just why I didn't
do it," and Darcy seemed a bit confused, a point not lost sight of by
Carroll. "I guess it must have been because I couldn't see well with
the electric light on my work table," went on the jewelry worker.
"I've got to get that fixed. Anyhow I didn't do anything to the
Indian's watch more than look at it, and I made up my mind to rise
early and hurry it through. So I didn't even wind it. I can't
understand what makes it go, unless some one got in and wound it--and
they wouldn't do that."

"Whose watch is it?" asked Thong.

"It belongs to Singa Phut."

"Singa Phut!" ejaculated Carroll. "Crimps, what a name! Who belongs
to it?"

"Singa Phut is an East Indian," explained Darcy. "He has a curio store
down on Water Street. We have bought some odd things from him for our
customers, queer bead necklaces and the like. He left the watch with
my cousin, who told me to repair it. It needed a new case-spring and
some of the screws were loose."

"How did Mrs. Darcy come to have the watch in her hand?" Carroll
demanded.

"That I couldn't say."

"What sort of a man is this Indian--Singa--Singa--" began Thong,
hesitatingly.

"Singa Phut is a quiet, studious Indian," answered Darcy. "He has not
lived here very long, but I knew him in New York. He has done business
with me for some years."

"Is he all right--safe--not one of them gars--you know, the fellows
that use a silk cord to strangle you with?" asked Thong, who had some
imagination regarding garroters.

"Not at all like that," said Darcy, and there was the trace of a smile
on his face. "He is a gentleman."

"Oh," said Carroll and Thong in unison.

There came another knock on the side door downstairs. There was less
of a crowd about now, and Mulligan did not have to keep back a rush as
he opened the portal.

"Dr. Warren," reported the policeman, calling upstairs to Carroll and
Thong.

"The county physician," explained Carroll. "Better come down and meet
him, Mr. Darcy. He'll want to ask you some questions. Then we'll have
another go at you. Got to ask a lot of questions in a case like this,"
he half apologized.

"Oh, sure," assented the jewelry worker.

"Doc Warren, eh," mused Thong to his partner, as Darcy preceded them
downstairs. "Now we'll know what killed her, and we'll have something
to start on--maybe."

"I think we've got something already," observed Carroll.

"Oh, yes--maybe--and then--again--maybe _not_. Come on!"

"Morning boys! Nice crisp day--if you say it quick!" cried the county
physician, as he shook the rain from his coat and tossed his auto
gloves on a shiny glass showcase. "Second time this week you've got me
out of bed before my time. What's the matter, if they've got to have a
murder, with doing it in the afternoon? I like my sleep!"

He was smiling and cheerful, was Dr. Warren. Murders and autopsies
were all in the day's work with him. He had been county physician for
a number of years.

"Hum, yes! quite an old lady," he mused as he took off his coat, which
Carroll held for him. The doctor rolled up his shirt sleeves and
stooped down. "Head's badly cut--let's see what we have here. Let's
have a light, it's too dark to see."

One of the clerks switched on more electric lights, and they glinted
and sparkled on the silver and cut glass. They flashed on the white,
still face, and the gleams seemed to be swallowed up in that red blotch
in the snowy hair.

"Um, yes! Depressed fracture. Bad place, too. Shouldn't wonder but


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