“I doubt if he told the truth regarding finding the body,” was my contribution.
“You know,” broke in Ranville, “we people at Scotland Yard are often accused of being slow. But there is one thing sure. We would have locked that Chinaman up and kept him for a while. His story sounded good. But at the same time he was the last person who went to the library around the time of the murder. And thinking it over now, there is another thing I want to know. He said the door was open and he walked in. If that's true, who closed it afterward? And what's more, who took the knife from the body? That was a silly thing to do after the murderer went away.”
Bartley gave him a long look and slowly repeated the word, silly, then became silent. Ranville and I entered into an argument as to whether the man had gone to the chief of police, as we suggested, and told him the story. Ranville had just said he would wager the chief had not seen him when the word “chief” made me give a quick look at my watch and remember that I was to meet him at Warren's library at seven-thirty. One glance told me it was now fifteen minutes past the hour. I arose with a sudden exclamation.
As I pushed back my chair, both men looked at me in surprise. In a few words I told where I was going, and Bartley at once suggested that he would go with us, to which the Englishman added his assent. We found our hats, went out on the lawn and, finding the Airedale running back and forth, locked him in the garage. The next moment we were in the car and a second later drove out of the yard.
Chapter X.
The Face at the Window
As we went up the hill which led to the eight-sided building in which we had found the murdered scientist, we concluded the chief had arrived. The lights were streaming out of the windows and the front door was slightly open. As we passed within the chief came over from the desk in the center of the room. I introduced him to Bartley and he shook his hand with evident pleasure.
For a few moments the two men talked. The chief told us the room was untouched from the night of the crime. After we had left he had stationed one of his policemen in the library. He said that he did not want the place overrun with people, and he knew that until the secretary had been found there was no way for him to tell if anything was missing. The room had not been entered by any one, though there had been hundreds of people drawn by curiosity who had wished to look within.
Bartley's eyes swept around the book-lined walls and then came to rest on the big desk in the center of the room. I told him where we had found the body and he slowly walked over to the place I pointed out. The chairs were just as we had found them and I mentioned what Ranville had said regarding the murderer sitting across from Warren. He slowly nodded his head in approval and then, turning, his keen eyes saw the broken glass in the bookcase.
I told him we had found it in that condition; and he went over to the case and, bending down, looked at the contents. Pulling first one and then another of the thin books from the case, he glanced at their title page, only to return them to the shelf. He spent some little time at the row which had the gaps in it, and I saw him half frown as he looked at every book on that shelf. He was just starting to say something when a voice from the door called:
“I hope I have not kept you waiting.”