The poor girl's rings had been torn from her fingers, her little stock of jewellery ransacked, her purse was empty, everything of value had been taken.

There was not a shred of evidence against any one.

Madame, who had seen the man upon the stairs, could only say that he was short, and wore a black felt hat.

The officer who took down what they had to say shrugged his shoulders as he replaced the book in his pocket.

The affair would pass most certainly, he feared, into the long list of undiscoverable crimes.
Duncombe left his name and address, and enough money for the funeral.
Then he returned to his hotel.