Burke picked up a yellow telegram dated New York, two days before.
It was as I feared when I left you. The secret service must have rummaged my baggage both here and at the hotel. They have taken some very valuable papers of mine.
“Secret service—rummage baggage?” repeated Burke, himself now in perplexity. “That is news to me. We have rummaged no trunks or bags, least of all Nordheim’s. In fact, we have never been able to find them at all.”
“Upstairs, Burke—the servants’ quarters,” interrupted Craig impatiently. “We are wasting time here.”
Mrs. Brainard offered no protest. I began to think that the whole thing was indeed a surprise to her, and that she had, in fact, been reading, instead of making a studied effort to appear surprised at our intrusion.
Room after room was flung open without finding any one, until we reached the attic, which had been finished off into several rooms. One door was closed. Craig opened it cautiously. It was pitch dark in spite of the broad daylight outside. We entered gingerly.
On the floor lay two dark piles of something. My foot touched one of them. I drew back in horror at the feeling. It was the body of a man.
Kennedy struck a light, and as he bent over in its little circle of radiance, he disclosed a ghastly scene.
“Hari-kiri!” he ejaculated. “They must have got my message to Burke and have seen that the house was surrounded.”
The two Japanese servants had committed suicide.