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which was moved throughout the building as needed, and a blackboard upon which Miss Pearson had evidently been engaged in drawing a fearful and wonderful Thanksgiving turkey, in colored chalk.
    Natalie Pearson’s desk was nearest the door. Miss Withers hesitated at prying into its contents, for she liked the boyish young drawing teacher. But this was no time for a consideration of ethics. Within a few moments Sergeant Taylor was bound to rejoin her, and Miss Withers had a secret desire to do her sleuthing alone.
    She found two vanity cases—both in disrepair—several boxes of pastels and colored chalk, a large box of water colors, its cakes badly mixed and muddied, and a theater program, undated, for a revival of Florenz Ziegfeld’s Show Boat, still running at the Casino Theater. Within the pages of the program was pressed a limp greenish-white cattelya orchid. Miss Withers sniffed, and then smiled and raised it to her nose. Then she made a grimace, for a faint odor of putridity clung to it.
    Carefully she replaced the token, leaving everything as she had found them. Then she passed on to the desk that had been Anise Halloran’s.
    Much to her surprise, Miss Withers found it locked. For a moment she debated with herself, and then went into action with a hairpin. She had met locks like this one before, and it was only a few seconds until the main drawer slid out, releasing the others.
    Sheet music, mostly folk songs and marches, covered a well-thumbed copy of the French classic Mon Homme, sung so successfully in this country some years ago by Fannie Brice … that was all she found in the top drawer.
    The top sides disclosed a box of Kleenex, a gold and enamel vanity with a cracked mirror, two packs of Life Savers, a large bottle labelled “Aspirin” which was nearly empty, a bottle labelled “Bromo Seltzer” which was quite empty, and an envelope containing two season tickets to the Lewisohn Stadium concerts of the past summer, both well-used.
    Miss Withers puzzled a moment over the aspirin and bromo. What was a young and beautiful girl like Anise Halloran doing with headache remedies? She hadn’t looked as if she ever had a headache in the world until the last few weeks. Well, her headache would trouble her no more. Miss Withers shivered as she thought of that broken body she had seen in the Cloakroom, two floors below. Where was it now? Into what dark recess had the murderer carried it, and when would the shadows give up their secret?
    The bottom drawer on the right brought the first real surprise of Miss Withers’ search. There she came upon a fat bottle labelled “Dewar’s Dew of Kirkintilloch.” The label was discolored, as if it had lain in salt water, and the contents of the bottle, to Miss Withers’ somewhat amateurish nose, seemed to be a reasonably close approximation of Scotch whiskey.
    She sniffed, and replaced the bottle, carefully covering it with the newspapers in which it had been wrapped. There was also a box of paper cups, of the type furnished in metal cases above the water containers of the school.
    Miss Withers frowned. That didn’t seem like Anise Halloran, somehow. She would as soon have believed that liquor was the secret vice of Mr. Macfarland himself.
    The desk yielded nothing more of interest, and Miss Withers slammed the drawers shut.
    It was at that moment that stealthy footsteps outside reminded her that a murderer was quite possibly stalking her through these deserted halls. Miss Withers reached the light switch in one second, flat, and cast the room into darkness. Then, with her umbrella poised for action, she waited.
    Slowly the door opened, and a man’s dark figure showed itself. Steadily she poked forward the umbrella, until its bone handled pressed sharply against the back of the figure which was moving past her into the room.
    “One move out of you and I’ll shoot,” she promised. Then she switched on the light. Sergeant Taylor, his hands high above his head, turned to