There, on the floor, lay his body, still in the same attitude in which he had died and almost as Grady had found him gasping. Grady's description of the horrible look on his face was, if anything, an understatement.
As I stood with my eyes riveted on the horror-stricken face on the floor, Kennedy had been quietly going over the furniture and carpet about the body.
"Look!" he exclaimed at last, scarcely turning to us. On the chair, the writing-table, and even on the walls were little pitted marks and scratches. He bent down over the carpet. There, reflecting the electric light, scattered all about, were little fine pieces of something that glittered.
"You have a vacuum cleaner, I suppose?" inquired Craig, rising quickly.
"Certainly—a plant in the cellar."
"No; I mean one that is portable."
"Yes; we have that, too," answered Grady, hurrying to the room telephone to have the cleaner sent up.
Kennedy now began to look through Shirley's baggage. There was, however, nothing to indicate that it had been rifled.
I noted, among other things, a photograph of a woman in Oriental dress, dusky, languorous, of more than ordinary beauty and intelligence. On it something was written in native characters.
Just then a boy wheeled the cleaner down the hall, and Kennedy quickly shoved the photograph into his pocket.