And yet it was seemingly a hopeless task. Though she carefully and systematically scrutinized walls, rugs and furniture, not a clue could she find.
She was on her hands and knees under a table when Tom Willard came into the room.
“What are you doing?” he said, unable to repress a smile as Kitty, with her curly hair a bit dishevelled, came scrambling out.
“Hunting for clues,” she said briefly.
“There are no clues,” said Tom gravely. “It’s the most inexplicable affair all ’round.”
“Then you have no suspicion of any one?”
“My dear Miss French,” said Tom, looking at her kindly, as one might at a child, but speaking decidedly; “don’t let the amusement of amateur detective work lead you into making unnecessary trouble for people. If detective work is to be done, leave it to experienced and professional hands. A girl hunting for broken sleeve-links or shreds of clothing is foolishly theatrical.”
Willard’s grave but gentle voice made Kitty think that she and Fessenden were acting childishly, but after Tom, who had come on an errand, had left the room, Kitty confided to herself that she would rather act foolishly at Rob Fessenden’s bidding than to follow the wise advice of any other man.
This was saying a good deal, but as she said it only to herself, she felt sure her confidence would not be betrayed.
Not half an hour had elapsed when Kitty appeared at the drawing-room door with a discontented face, and said, “There’s positively nothing in the library that doesn’t belong there. It has been thoroughly swept, and though there may have been many clues, they’ve all been swept and dusted away.”