The answer was a steady look.
In a moment the young man went on: "Well, the party came up to the desk after stabbing the General. I imagine that's where your missing paper went—what he was after. And right here—just as he got out of his chair—he seems to have slipped. Probably in a hurry; or else the bullet clipped him about that time—eh?—or her."
Converse shook his head dubiously. "I can't say," he returned, meditatively. "There's something about those footmarks that is mighty peculiar, Mac; I can't just make it out." He mused a moment longer, but presently bestirred himself again. "Two shots were fired from that gun, you know," he concluded; "have you located the other bullet?"
McCaleb looked blank for an instant, as if he had been guilty of some vital oversight. However, he turned at once to a search for the missing bullet.
The glass doors before the books simplified the matter somewhat: the radiating lines from a bullet-hole in one of the panes would be so conspicuous that the most cursory glance would scarcely overlook them. Elsewhere there was no indication of the second missile; and with a little laugh McCaleb abruptly stopped and indicated by the wave of a hand the open window.
"If you have eliminated every other possibility, all right," said Converse. "Now, Mac, you may telephone for Merkel." At which last statement McCaleb smiled: the Coroner would not be in the way now.
The young man departed on his errand, and Converse went over and knelt before the fireplace.
To Policeman Clancy, the quiet, self-contained, confident man scanning the bricks and the crevices between them with an eagle-like scrutiny was the embodiment of awful and mysterious possibilities.