“This is a strange situation,” the other said, wiping the sweat of excitement from his face.
“One of the incidents which add to the joy of life,” Lemon said. “You remember Felix Emory?” he added. “Well, his pretense for this call is that he came to ask about him. Go ahead, Mr. Burglar.”
“Perhaps you will also remember,” Ned went on, “that on my former visit here I exhibited a key with a broken stem—the key to that writing desk?”
Lemon’s face hardened and he glanced furtively at the servant, but said not a word.
“This key,” Ned said, producing the one mentioned, “was found in the pocket of the man who was found dead in the Rocky Mountains. You think you left it in the suit of clothes you gave Emory?”
“Possibly,” was the strained reply. “But we have had enough of this,” Lemon added. “Call the police, Jap.”
“Just a moment,” Ned went on, when the Jap moved toward the door. “When you could not find the key, Mr. Lemon, why didn’t you use the duplicate. The duplicate you kept in the box on the shelf? Why did you think it necessary to break the lock?”
“The servant did that,” was the angry reply.
“I see,” Ned replied, coolly, “perhaps that was done while you were up in the mountains with Emory—before he was killed?”
“Possibly,” Lemon gritted out.