"Who was the third man?"
Mr. Farrington's face went from white to red, and to white again.
"The third man?" he stammered.
"I mean the man who shot those two," said T. B., "because if there is one thing more obvious than another it is that they were both killed by a third person. You see," he went on, "though they had pistols neither had been discharged—that was evident, because on each the safety catch was raised. Also the lamp-post near which they stood was chipped by a bullet which neither could have fired. I suggest, Mr. Farrington, that there was a third man present. Do you object to my searching your house?"
A little smile played across the face of the other.
"I haven't the slightest objection," he said. "Where will you start?"
"In the basement," said T. B.; "that is to say, in your kitchen."
The millionaire led the way down the stairs, and descended the back stairway which led to the domain of the absent cook. He turned on the electric light as they entered.
There was no sign of an intruder.
"That is the cellar door," indicated Mr. Farrington, "this the larder, and this leads to the area passage. It is locked."