"Up there," he pointed, "on the third floor."
There was no fire escape, nor were there any outside balconies, and I wondered how Craig would account for it.
"Someone might have lowered the trunk from the window by a rope, might they not?" he asked simply.
"Yes," returned the chef, unconvinced. "But his door was locked and he had his keys in his pocket. How about that?"
"It doesn't follow that he was killed in his room, does it?" asked Craig. "In fact it is altogether impossible that he could have been. Suppose he was killed outside. Might not someone have taken the keys from his pocket, gone up to the room without making any noise and let the trunk down here by a rope? Then if he had dropped the rope, locked the door, and returned the keys to Benson's pockets—how about that?"
It was so simple and feasible that no one could deny it. Yet I could not see that it furthered us in solving the greater mystery.
We went up to the steward's room and searched his belongings, without finding anything that merited even that expenditure of time.
However, Craig was confident now, although he did not say much, and by a late train we returned to the city in preference to using Mrs. Ferris's car.
All the next day, Kennedy was engaged, either in his laboratory or on an errand that took him downtown during most of the middle of the day.
When he returned, I could tell by the look on his face that his quest, whatever it had been, had been successful.