“Probably in his wallet,” Milbers said. “The banker is positive that’s where he put the five thousand dollars he drew out Thursday.”
Nettie Cranning and her daughter exchanged glances. Eva said defensively, “He wasn’t ever alone in the room with Mr. Milbers. You know that as well as I do. Mother.”
“Not before he died,” Mrs. Cranning said, “but—”
“Mother!”
“Oh, all right! But you were the one who brought the matter up.”
“Well, you as good as accused—”
Mrs. Cranning turned to Bertha with a smile. “Of course, Mrs. Cool, this is a great shock to us and a great surprise. We want to do everything we can to help you — if you want our help.”
“Oh, certainly,” Bertha said dryly. “And you’ll really be surprised to find how much I can do.”
The library was a huge room lined with shelves of books, many of them bound in a leather which had turned a dark, crusty brown with age. In the centre of the room was a long table, and this table was fairly littered with books lying open, piled one on top of the other. In the centre was a writing pad and a pencil. The top page of the pad was scrawled with notes written in an angular cramped hand.
Mrs. Cranning said, “I don’t think anyone’s looked through here except Mr. Christopher Milbers, who asked to look through the whole house. It’s just the way poor Mr. Milbers left it. He gave orders that no one, under any circumstances, was to touch any of the books or things in this room. They were all to be kept just as he left them. Sometimes there would be days on end when I couldn’t get at the table to dust it because it was so littered with things that I couldn’t touch.”