“I—I don’t know.” The man’s face was convincing. His frank eyes testified to the truth of his words. “I assure you, I don’t know. I was so—so bewildered—that I must have dropped it—somewhere. I never thought of it again.”
“But if you had merely dropped it, it must have been found. And it hasn’t been.”
“Somebody else found it and secreted it,” suggested Hallen. “Probably Mr. Wheeler’s wife or daughter.”
“Perhaps so,” assented Wheeler, calmly. “They might have thought to help me by secreting it. Have you asked them?”
“Yes, and they deny all knowledge of it.”
“So do I. But surely it will be found.”
“It must be found. And, therefore, it is imperative that the rooms of the ladies as well as your own rooms, sir, be thoroughly searched.”
“All right—go ahead and search!” Wheeler spoke sharply. “I’ve confessed the crime, now waste no time in useless chattering. Get the evidence, get the proofs, and let the law take its course.”
“You will not leave the premises,” put in Hallen, and his tone was that of command rather than inquiry.
“I most certainly shall not,” declared Wheeler. “But I do ask you, gentlemen, to trouble and annoy my wife and daughter as little as possible. Their grief is sufficient reason for their being let alone.”