“Nor I,” said Lockwood. “Has the waste-basket been searched for the thing that killed him?”
Acting quickly on his own suggestion, Gordon Lockwood dived beneath the great desk.
Like a flash, Morton was after him, and though the detective was not sure, he thought he saw the secretary grasp a bit of crumpled paper and stuff it in his pocket.
“Now, look here, I’ll make that search,” Morton exclaimed, and almost snatched the waste-basket from the other’s grasp.
“Very well,” and Lockwood put his hands in his pockets and stood looking on, as Morton fumbled with the scraps.
He emptied the basket on the floor, but there were only a few torn envelopes and memoranda, which were soon proved to be of no indicative value to the searchers.
“I’ll save the stuff, anyway,” Morton declared, getting a newspaper and wrapping in it the few bits of waste paper.
“Did you take a paper from this basket and put it in your pocket?” the detective suddenly demanded.
Lockwood, without moving, gave Morton a cold stare that was more negative than any words could be, and was, moreover, exceedingly disconcerting.
“Look here, Mr. Morton,” he said, “if you suspect me of killing my employer, come out and say so. I know, in story-books, the first one to be suspected is the confidential secretary. So, accuse me, and get it over with.”