"Not yourself?"
Clancy cast an appreciative glance at the comfortable Morris chair, and then one of contempt at the less inviting seat.
"Oi hov not," he replied, with deliberate emphasis. Such innocence of his questioner's intent was not to be doubted: the chairs had not been disturbed.
If the Captain evinced an unusual interest in the straight-backed chair, one other article must be mentioned to which his eye reverted many times,—the nickel-plated desk telephone, overturned upon the blotting-pad, its hooks free of the receiver. It was more than likely that when Miss Westbrook attempted to use the instrument in the hall, she received no response from Central, the line already, doubtless, having been put out of commission.
Close by the nerveless fingers of the General's right hand was a revolver. An inspection of this revealed a weapon of familiar make, of .38 calibre; and the pungent odor of freshly burnt powder, which still clung about it, together with two exploded shells, told its own story of recent and apparently ineffectual use.
It was only natural to turn from the revolver to a partially open drawer on the right side of the desk, and to the desk itself; and here once more the mute witnesses gave their unspoken testimony. Had General Westbrook been seated at his desk writing when some midnight caller interrupted him? Had a conference then followed which crescendoed rapidly through the various stages of a quarrel, a verbis ad verbera, to a sudden resort to violence? Well, here was the cover off the ink-well; a spreading spot of ink on the blotting-pad marked where a pen had been dropped; a tablet was conveniently at hand, but not one scrap of paper that had been written upon, except one or two neat piles of envelopes containing letters addressed to the dead man, and other documents of various kinds, none of which, probably, had engaged his attention during the minutes preceding the abrupt blotting out of his life.
But in these particulars could be read the fact that the unfortunate gentleman had, some time during the night, been actually writing at his desk. Then, the chair forcibly shoved backward; the right hand, overturning the telephone in its precipitancy, flying to the drawer where the revolver reposed, presented a picture to the Captain's mental vision almost as comprehensive as a photograph. The General had not been surprised: an explanation of the interval between the dropping of the pen and the hurried opening of the drawer lay in the occupancy of the two chairs; this hiatus contained the whole story of the crime.
Thoughtfully Converse set the telephone upright again. He hung the receiver upon the hooks, and after a minute or so of waiting endeavored to catch Central. But it was of no use; no response came; the line evidently had been, as he had already thought, "cut out" as being out of order—which naturally would follow upon a continuous signal with no request for a number.
Next, he picked up the writing-tablet, and upon it his scrutiny became almost instantly glued. He seemed to be as absorbed in the unsullied whiteness of its top sheet as if it had been covered with written characters. His stiff lips presently pursed; his right eyebrow lifted in a familiar quizzical manner; and he looked from the tablet in his hand to the fireplace, black and cold. After all, there was evidently a message in those blank pages: the last one used had been hastily and carelessly rent from the binding gum, as the saw-tooth particles of paper yet adhering to the tablet, in this one instance, affirmed.
The elderly gentleman who had admitted the two officers had been watching Mr. Converse with as much interest as that evinced by McCaleb himself, and the young patrolman was taking advantage of his opportunity greedily. The elderly gentleman now stepped forward.