Phelps meanwhile had been listening to us impatiently. Finally he turned to Mackay.
"Was that all you called me out here for? Did you just want to show me the pinholes in those portieres?"
"Not exactly," Mackay replied, eyeing him sharply. "Some one forced his way into this library last night. My guard saw him, and also saw a second man who remained out in the shrubbery and seemed to be watching the first. One shot was fired, but both men got away. An automobile was waiting, perhaps two of them."
"How does this concern me?" Phelps's voice rose in anger. He strode into the library and over to the French windows, inspecting the damage to the fine woodwork with steadily rising color. Then he hurried back to the side of Mackay.
"It's up to you, District-Attorney Mackay," he said, with a great show of his ill feeling. "You practically forced me out of my own house. You sent my servants away. You put your own guards in charge, young, inexperienced deputies who don't know enough to come in when it's wet. Now you have me make this trip out here in business hours just to show me where a needle has been stuck in a curtain and where a pair of imported window sashes have been ruined."
Mackay was unruffled. "It is necessary, Mr. Phelps, that you look over this room and see that nothing else has been disturbed; that there is no further damage. Moreover, I thought you might be interested, might wish to help us determine the identity of the intruder."
"If there's any way I can really help you to do that"—sarcastically—"I'll be delighted."
"Were you here the night before the murder?" Mackay asked.
"You know I seldom spend the night in Tarrytown. I have quarters in New
York, at the club, and recently I have been spending all my time in New
York, on account of the situation in the picture business."
"You were not here the night before the murder, then?"