I pulled the photographs out of the envelope. We stared at them. Neither Mr. or Mrs. Blodgett looked at all the sort of person you would like to know. But neither of them bore the slightest resemblance to any of the three suspects in front of us.

“It might also interest you,” said the Inspector quietly, “that I’ve checked with the Ogden Bluffs police. Mr. Blodgett has been sick in bed for over a week and his wife has been nursing him. There is a doctor’s certificate to that effect.”

Inspector Green gazed down at his hands. They were competent hands. “It looks to me that the whole Blodgett story was built up in Miss Crump’s mind—or yours.” His grey eyes stared right through us. “If we have to eliminate the Blodgetts and these three people from suspicion, that leaves only two others who had the slightest chance of poisoning the hamburger.”

Iris blinked. “Us?”

“You,” said Inspector Green almost sadly.

They didn’t arrest us, of course. We had no conceivable motive. But Inspector Green questioned us minutely and when he left there was a policeman lounging outside our door.

We spent a harried afternoon racking our brains and getting nowhere. Iris was the one who had the inspiration. Suddenly, just after she had fed Poppy the remains of the Stroganov, she exclaimed:

“Good heavens above, of course!”

“Of course, what?”

She spun to me, her eyes shining. “Barney Thtone,” she lisped. “Why didn’t we realize? Come on!”

She ran out of the house into the street. She grabbed the lounging policeman by the arm.

“You live here,” she said. “Who’s Barney Stone?”

“Barney Stone?” The policeman stared. “He’s the son of the druggist on the corner.”

Iris raced me to the drugstore. She was attracting quite a crowd. The policeman followed, too.

In the drugstore, a thin young man with spectacles stood behind the prescription counter.

“Mr. Stone?” asked Iris.

His mouth dropped open. “Gee, Miss Duluth. I never dreamed . . . Gee, Miss Duluth, what can I do for you? Cigarettes? An alarm clock?”

“A little girl,” said Iris. “A little girl with sandy pigtails and a brace on her teeth. What’s her name? Where does she live?”

Barney Stone said promptly: “You mean Daisy Kornfeld. Kind of homely. Just down the block. 712. Miss Duluth, I certainly . . .”

“Thanks,” cut in Iris and we were off again with our ever growing escort.

Daisy was sitting in the Kornfeld parlor, glumly thumping the piano. Ushered in by an excited, cooing Mrs. Kornfeld, Iris interrupted Daisy’s rendition of “The Jolly Farmer.”

“Daisy, that picture you took of me yesterday to sell to Mr. Stone, is it developed yet?”

“Geeth no, Mith Duluth. I ain’t got the developing money yet. Theventy-five thenth. Ma don’t give me but a nickel an hour for practithing thith gothdarn piano.”