“Don't try that game!” cautioned MacVightie grimly. “And don't lie! He had to come up these stairs, your door was partly open, and he couldn't have passed without you knowing it.”
“That's what I'm saying,” agreed the Hawk, even more earnestly. “That's why I'm saying you must have got the wrong dope. Of course, he couldn't have got by without me hearing him! That's a cinch! And, I'm telling you straight, he didn't.”
“Didn't he?” MacVightie's smile was thin. “Then he came in here—into this room.”
“In here?” echoed the Hawk weakly. His gaze wandered helplessly around the room. “Well, all you've got to do is look.”
“I'm going to!” announced MacVightie curtly—and with a sudden jerk he yanked the single bed out from the wall. He peered behind and beneath it; then, stepping over to a cretonne curtain in the corner that served as wardrobe, he pulled it roughly aside.
There were no other places of possible concealment. MacVightie chewed at his under lip, and eyed the Hawk speculatively.
The Hawk's eyes were still travelling bewilderedly about the room, as though he still expected to find something.
“Are you dead sure he came into this house,” he inquired heavily, as though the problem were entirely beyond him.
MacVightie hesitated.
“Well—no,” he acknowledged, after a moment. “I guess you're straight all right, and I'll admit I didn't see him come in; but I'd have pretty near taken an oath on it.”