“The door was locked,” put in Vail. “Locked from the inside.”
“H’m!” mused the chief, crossing to the splintered portal. “I see. You folks broke it in, eh? Where’s the key?”
“What key?”
“Key of the door, of course. If Mr. Chase locked himself in he must have done it with a key. And it isn’t likely he took the key out of the lock afterward. Where is it? It isn’t in the keyhole.”
“The door flew open pretty hard,” said Vail. “Perhaps the key was knocked out onto the floor. Shall I look?”
“Never mind,” refused the chief. “It isn’t immediate. My men can look for it in the morning. I’m going to seal this room, of course, and keep some one on guard. That knife, now—that ought to be easy to trace. It isn’t like any other I ever saw. It—”
“You’re right,” acceded Vail, nettled at his lofty air, “it’s quite easy to trace. It’s mine.”
“Yours?”
The chief fairly spat the word at him. Again the heavy gray brows bent, the eyes mere slits of quizzical light between the puckered lids.
“Yes,” said Vail. “I had it out, earlier in the evening. I used it to draw a cork. I didn’t put it back in my pocket. I must have left it lying somewhere. I looked afterward but I couldn’t find it. Some one must have—”