THE TRUTH about the case of the foundling bones should have been apparent from the start. At least, on looking back, it seems so to me. I believe that almost from the beginning, Police Commissioner Thatcher Colt had an idea of the nature of the deed and how it was committed. The problem was to prove it, and in this process, so Colt maintains, the Police Department and not himself deserves all praise. As to that, I make no comment, except to remind the reader that the only reason Thatcher Colt has permitted me to publish these memoirs is for the greater glory of the department which he administered so fairly and efficiently under two Mayors, of opposite political faiths. Colt's love for the Police Department is thorough and sincere; he is anxious to win public respect and support for the blue-coats in the war against crime. Some years ago, in presenting the first of these mysteries of New York to the public, I made a few remarks which may bear repeating now:—

THE disappearance of Geraldine Foster was first reported to the authorities on the third day after Christmas, several years ago.Only a desk lamp was burning in the famous private office at the north end of the second floor of Police Headquarters at 240 Centre Street, New York City. The rest of the commissioner's room was darkened with the premature shadows of a raw and gusty winter afternoon. Brooding over a shuffle of blue prints, Thatcher Colt sat at his desk, enchanted with the traffic puzzle of a great city.Finally he glanced up at me quizzically. "You can go. Tony," he said. "You've done enough work for one secretary today.""Captain Henry wants to see you, but I told him you didn't wish to be disturbed," I replied."Oh, well― send him right in."Captain― now Deputy-Inspector― Israel Henry was in charge of the cluster of offices surrounding the private room of the Police Commissioner of New York City. In this capacity he was the guardian of Thatcher Colt's privacy and all visitors had to see him first.

IT was Friday, the thirteenth.Against the windows in the private office of the Police Commissioner anApril rain pattered rest-lessly. The spring down-pour filled with premature dusk the dark-panelled room in Suite 200, at the north end of the second floor of the old Headquarters Building in Centre Street. On Thatcher Colt's desk a greenshaded lamp spilled a circle of white light. Bent forward in a hunched posture of concentration was the Commissioner, shuffling proof sheets of his annual report to the Mayor.It was about 3.30 o'clock when a knock sounded at the door and Captain— now Inspector— Israel Henry, the officer in charge of the Commissioner's suite, handed me a card, heavily embossed in gilded script, which read:"Colonel Tod Robinson, Owner and Manager, Robinson Brothers' and Dawson and Woodruff's Combined Greatest Shows on Earth."When I laid the flamboyant card before Thatcher Colt his sombre dark eyes sparkled with pleasure."Tod Robinson!" he exclaimed. "His show opens at the Garden tonight! Send him right in!"