"There! Look for yourselves, if you don't believe me!" he cried.
Each member of the party, in turn, looked into the coat-closet under the front stairway. A small shelf in a corner had been built to hold six dry cells. It was bare of anything save dust now. Two wire connections projected uselessly from the wall.
Mr. Witherbee's guests looked at each other in silence.
"Now, who the deuce would do a thing like that?" said Tom Witherbee tentatively, when the pause had become prolonged.
"Who, indeed?" murmured Rosalind.
She was staring at the empty shelf as if it had a peculiar fascination for her.
"What I can't understand," said Mrs. Witherbee, "is why a burglar would want to steal the batteries out of a burglar-alarm."
"Why, madam?" exploded her husband, whirling upon her. "Why? Anybody knows why! Why does a burglar poison a watch-dog? To keep it from barking. Why does a burglar chloroform a family? To keep 'em from waking up! Why does he steal the works out of an alarm? To keep the bell from ringing, madam. Lord Harry, it's plain enough!"
"That does sound rather reasonable," assented Rosalind, still fascinated by the empty shelf.
"They're getting ready for a raid, I tell you—a raid on the house!" declaimed Mr. Witherbee furiously. "They're just paving the way. And when they come—by George—there'll be nothing to wake us up!"