A chattering shriek from the upper regions cut the protest in half, and the three occupants of the dining room rushed into the hall in good time to meet the housemaid flying down, the stair, wild-eyed and incoherent.
“A man—a man in Misther Brant’s room!” was all she could say, and, at the word, Brant and the chief clerk darted up to the second floor three steps at a bound. Arrived on the scene of the mystery, they found an empty room smelling strongly of brandy, an open window, and a little heap of Brant’s clothing in the middle of the floor. Antrim made a dash for the window, and was out upon the tin roof of the veranda in a twinkling. When he climbed back into the room there was the light of discovery in his eye.
“There is a ladder standing against the end of the porch. That is how he got away.”
“Yes; and it is how he came,” said Brant. “He was a—” He stopped abruptly and clapped his hand upon his pocket. There was only one thing among his belongings that any one would risk life or liberty to obtain, and that thing was safe. He drew out the packet of papers and gave it to the chief clerk.
“He was a burglar,” he said, finishing his sentence, “and he made the mistake of taking a drop too much.”
Antrim was turning the packet over and reading the superscription: “To be opened at my death. George Brant.” “What is this?” he asked curiously.
“It is what the burglar was after. Take it and lock it up in your safe, and I’ll tell you about it later. Now we’ll go down and get the fellow’s description from Mary.”
That was easier said than done. The housemaid was too thoroughly frightened to be successfully cross-examined. The intruder was tall, he was short. In one breath he wore a beard and was a very buccaneer in general appearance; in the next, he was smooth-shaven. Picked out and pieced together, her facts were but two: she had seen a strange man dressed in black, and he had rushed first at her and then toward the window.
Mrs. Seeley and Antrim badgered the servant for further data and sank deeper into the mire of wonderment at each fresh rendering of her adventure; but Brant stood aside as one who rides upon his own train of thought. The burglar’s object defined, there was only the question of identity to be answered. Harding was a coward, and he was much too shrewd to defeat his own end and risk his neck for the sake of a bottle of brandy. Wherefore, Harding must have employed an emissary. But who could he find who was at once brave enough to take the risk and foolhardy enough to get drunk in the midst of it? No seasoned house-breaker, certainly; it was more like the hare-brained prank of a reckless boy; such a boy, for instance, as William Langford.
Brant bided his time, and when Mrs. Seeley went above-stairs to view the scene of the invasion he lagged behind with Mary McCarthy.