“Are you implying that one of us may be guilty!” cried Eve, really incensed at the thought.
“I’m not implying anything, ma’am. I’m investigating. When I find out anything, I’ll accuse, I won’t imply.”
The man’s personality was not unpleasant. Of a commonplace type, he went about his business cheerfully, and in a practical, common sense fashion.
He examined the great hall, where the deaths had occurred, for a possible secret entrance.
“Nothing doing,” was his sum-up of this investigation. “That mahogany wall of the vestibule is as solid as a rock, and nobody could get through those bronze doors when they’re locked and fastened with those bolts!”
“Are you assuming that some one entered and killed the victims, as we all sat round drinking tea?” exclaimed the Professor, irascibly.
“Not just that, sir,” returned Peterson, gravely. “But somebody might have entered in the night, say, and secreted himself,——”
“And then appeared to poison the cake when we weren’t looking!” jeered London.
“Well,” and the detective looked a little sheepish, “I got to consider all points, you know. And there don’t seem to be any clues—of any sort.”
“No,” said Braye, “no dropped handkerchief or broken cuff-link. Those would be a help, wouldn’t they?”