“Rubbish!” Minna Varian told her. “My Betty was,—is,—a healthy, normal girl. She has none of those foolish notions of the occult or supernatural.”
“It’s the only explanation,” said Mrs Fletcher, doggedly. “And I do think the house is haunted,—I heard mysterious sounds last night,—like rustling of wings.”
Minna Varian only looked amused at this, but Granniss, who was present, said, “That’s interesting, Mrs Fletcher. Tell me about it.”
The account, however, was merely a vague idea of sounds, that might have been mysterious, but were more likely made by the servants going about at night.
Sheriff Potter and his colleague, Bill Dunn, had practically given up the matter. They pretended to be working on it, but as they themselves put it, “What can you do when you can’t do nothin’?”
There was room for much discussion, but when it came to action, what was there to be done?
You can’t hunt a criminal when you’ve no reason to assume any criminal intent. You can’t hunt for a missing girl after you’ve scoured all the places where she could by any possibility be found. You can’t hunt for the murderer of a man when there was no way for a murderer to be on the scene.
“Then are you going to give up the quest?” Granniss asked of the sheriff.
“No, not that,” Potter said, uneasily. “We’re open to suggestion,—we’re keen for any new clue or testimony,—but where can we look for such? You must see, Mr Granniss, that it’s a mighty unusual case,—a most mysterious and unsolvable case.”
“I do see that, and that’s why I’m going to get expert assistance.”