“I don’t know. Neither of us knows what visitors the old man might have had. But that doesn’t prove he had none.”
Mr. Tarkington seemed far from satisfied. He threw away his cigarette and took another from the box, handling it delicately in his long, thin fingers. He moved nervously in his chair and then said in a low voice:—
“I suppose then, Oxley, I may take it that you were quite satisfied about that business—I mean at the time?”
Mr. Oxley looked at his friend in surprise.
“Good gracious, Tarkington, what bee have you in your bonnet? Do you mean satisfied that the fire was an accident and that those three poor people were burned? Of course I was. It never occurred to me to doubt it.”
The other seemed slightly relieved.
“I hope sincerely that you’re right,” he answered. “But I may tell you that I wasn’t satisfied—neither at the time nor yet since. That’s the reason that when I heard about the note I came at once to consult you. There’s a point which you and the coroner and the police and every one concerned seem to have overlooked.” He dropped his voice still further and became very impressive. “What about the papers that were burnt in the safe?”
Mr. Oxley was surprised at his friend’s persistence.
“Well, what in Heaven’s name about them? For the life of me I don’t see what you’re driving at.”
“Haven’t you ever been in Averill’s bedroom?”