“Then they were the object of the visit. Why he should mutilate poor me I find it difficult to explain.”
He told Rex Lander what happened on the night of the second burglary and Rex listened fascinated.
“I’ve lost all the fun being away,” he grumbled. “So poor old Brown was the victim, eh? And we thought he was the murderer. And Carver—what has he got to say about it?”
“Carver is rattled, but mysterious,” said Tab.
Rex was deep in thought.
“I am going to have that strong-room bricked up,” he said, “I made up my mind while I was on the ship. Anyway, I don’t suppose anybody will want to buy the beastly place, and I shall have it on my hands for years. But I’ll take pretty good care that tragedy number two doesn’t become tragedy number three.”
“Why not remove the door?” suggested Tab, but Rex shook his head.
“I won’t have the vault turned into a show place,” he said quietly. “Besides, it will likely enough stop a good sale. My own inclinations are to pull the house down and have it rebuilt; dig it out from foundation to roof and start fresh. But I don’t think that even that would induce me to go and live there,” he said. “Poor old Jesse’s blood would rise up from the ground and find us wherever we were. There is a curse upon the house,” he went on solemnly. “Some evil spirit seems to brood over it and inspire innocent men to these hideous crimes.”
Tab stared at him in amazement.
“Babe,” he said, “you’ve got poetical. I guess it is the air of Italy.”