Mrs. Witherbee shivered.
"But, Stephen," she said, wrinkling her forehead in puzzlement, "if they could get into the house to steal the batteries so as to make ready for a raid, why didn't they raid the house, instead of stealing the batteries?"
"That's a problem, too," commented Rosalind. "How do you account for it, Mr. Witherbee?"
"Account for it?" His flashing glance went from his wife to Rosalind, then back again. "Why should I account for it? I'm not a burglar. It takes a thief to know why! The point is, it's been done—that's all."
"It's cursedly odd," said Mr. Morton, as he stroked his yellow mustache.
Mr. Witherbee glared at his guest, opened his mouth to say something, then made a helpless gesture and remained silent.
"You just noticed this, dad?" asked Tom.
"When I went to get a hat."
"Did you ask any of the servants about it?"
"No! What would a servant want with an electric battery? If you're going to ask me if I suspect my servants, I'll tell you no—right now, sir."