The warden opened his mouth as if to object, but thought better of it, and in a forbearing tone asked the chauffeur, Frank, to call the caretaker.
The latter must have been just outside the door, in the kitchen of the lodge, for he shambled in at once, looking with curious eyes at the strangers who had invaded his domain in the name of the law. He was a bent little man, with a drooping brown mustache, and he stood in silence, resting on one foot, waiting for someone to speak.
Jake faced him. “Can you show me the room where Burk used to sleep, when he was working here?”
The caretaker darted a look at the warden, who motioned for him to answer. “Wal, yes, guess I can. Sleep there myself; my room now.”
He led the way toward the rear of the building, and the others followed, with Frank bearing the oil-lamp behind them. The room which they entered lay in the far corner of the lodge, a narrow little place with brown boarded walls, within which there was barely space enough for a small cot-bed, a chair, and a tiny dresser. The warden surveyed the room curiously, but Jake went straight to the bed, and turned down the covers. Then he wheeled on the caretaker.
“Is this bed the same as when Burk was here?” he asked sharply.
“Wal, just about. Covers are the same, mostly, but that there’s a new mattress I just got last week.”
“Where’s the old mattress?”
“Chucked it outside on the woodpile. Why?”
Jake Utway did not pause to reply. In an instant he was into the hall, racing through the lighted kitchen, and out the back door.