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“Charles Augustus Witzel,” said Gribble, correctingly.

“I have so many aliases I forget them,” said Mr. Witzel to Mr. Gubb. “You’ll understand that perfectly. You are a detective, and I’m a detective, Witzel or Wotzel or Wutzel–who cares? We understand each other. Don’t we?”

“I presume to suppose we will do so in the course of time,” said Philo Gubb politely.

“Pre-cise-ly!” said Mr. Witzel. “So I said to Gribble, ‘I’m afraid of Gubb! He’s the man who will find Master, if I don’t. But I’ve got an advantage. I’ve got the clue.'”

He pointed to the suitcase.

“So Gribble says to me,” said Mr. Witzel, “‘Why don’t you and Gubb combine?’ ‘Great idea!’ I says, and–here I am. How about it, Mr. Gobb?”

“Gubb is the name I adhere to when not deteckating,” said Mr. Gubb kindly. “And as to how about it, I wouldn’t want to enter into a combination shutting me out from using the ability taught to me in Chapters One to Twelve inclusive, of the Correspondence course. For the twenty-five hundred which would fall to my share, I should expect to detect to some considerable extent.”

“Quite right! Quite right!” said Mr. Witzel promptly. “That meets my plans entirely. I make my headquarters here, I give you a free hand. I am a–an inductive detective.”

“Yes, sir. A Sherlock Holmes deteckative,” said Philo Gubb.

“Ex-act-ly!” said Mr. Witzel. “I think things out. But you go out. You shadow and snoop and trail. I remain here. For you see,” he added, “I’m so well known that if Master saw me he would disappear instantly. Instantly!”

“I’m willing to transact it as a business bargain onto them terms,” said Philo Gubb, and it was agreed.

Mr. Gribble immediately cut the cords that bound the two bundles, and released a canvas cot and a bundle of bedding. Then he said good-night and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Gubb waited until he heard Mr. Gribble’s footsteps on the brass-clad stairs.

“That Gribble man ain’t what I’d term by name of a–of a–” He hesitated. “He’s not known as a strictly reliable citizen in any respect,” he ended. “I wouldn’t trust him any more than need be necessary.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Witzel, who was already removing his garments. “I don’t mean to. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire. Let’s see if Mr. Master has a night-shirt in his suitcase. I think it helps the inductive mind to sleep in the night-shirt of the man it is hunting.”

He opened the suitcase, using–oddly enough a key from his own bunch of keys. He found a night-shirt and put it on. To his surprise it fitted him exactly, which was odd, for Mr. Witzel was an unusually tall and thin man. Without wasting time, he climbed into the cot and closed his eyes. Mr. Gubb also retired.

Philo Gubb, from his cot, watched Mr. Witzel until he was sure he was thoroughly asleep. Then the Correspondence School detective slipped out of bed and knelt over the suitcase.

The suitcase contained linen all plainly marked. The name “C. Master” was written in indelible ink on each piece. An extra suit of outer garments was marked with Mr. Master’s name. There were silver-backed toilet articles, engraved with Mr. Master’s name, and these Mr. Gubb examined closely, but what caught and held his interest most was a folded document, covered in light-blue paper and endorsed, “Last Will and Testament of Orlando J. Higgins. Copy.”

The will began with the usual preamble, but the clause that caught Philo Gubb’s bird-like eye, and held it, was the next.

“To my nephew, Custer Master,” this clause said, “I give and bequeath $450,000; but, be it understood, my said nephew, Custer Master, shall benefit by this clause only in case he faithfully carries out the instructions contained in the sealed envelope attached hereto, the contents of said envelope to be read by my hereinafter named Executors, and the said Custer Master, and not by any other persons whatsoever; the said Executors are to be the sole judges of whether the said Custer Master has carried out the instructions therein contained.”