As Bartley did not comment on my accident, Ranville after a pause asked him if he had any kind of a theory about the case. I saw Bartley's lips melt into a firm line, and he turned to the Englishman.
“I have no theory at all, Ranville. It seems to me that there is something we do not know—some little thing, perhaps, which might give the light we need. What it is I cannot even guess. You know that our work is one-third brains and perhaps two-thirds luck. As this case now stands, all the brains we may use upon it will not aid us unless luck plays a little part. Plays it by giving that little clew—the hint which would cause us to discover what the motive might be or find the type of a person who might have killed Warren.”
The telephone bell interrupted him. It was a long, incessant ring. I went into the hall, and in a moment there came the voice of the chief asking for Bartley. Telling him to wait, I returned to the living room and said that the chief was calling. With a half smile Bartley rose to his feet and went out into the hall. We heard the low murmur of his voice, and the conversation was rather long. When it ceased, he came slowly back and dropped into a chair. There was a rather perplexed look on his face as he turned to us.
“The chief called up to tell me he has succeeded in getting the gardener to talk. And the chief, I might add, although he promised to let the man go, has decided to hold him longer.”
“What for?” we both cried.
“Well,” came the slow reply, “the gardener says that he was asked to go into Warren's library and take one of those three caskets which I noticed on the stands. He was to take the one nearest the safe; for doing this he would receive one hundred dollars.”
“Who asked him to do that?” came Ranville's eager question.
Bartley shrugged his shoulders in a gesture which might express anything.
“He says your Chinese visitor was the one who made the proposal.”