He mentally wandered from one room to the other, and paused in a little pantry-like place, peering into each nook and corner, and searching every article of furniture likely to contain a bulky object; but all in vain.
Then he recalled the fact that the police officer—a man of experience—had searched carefully and given the matter up. Still Brettison must have practiced a great deal of cunning for his friend’s sake, and there was no knowing what he might have done. There were the floors of the rooms—boards might have been taken up, and concealment made between the joists; or there was the wainscot; some panel might have been taken out in front of a recess, and the body placed there.
But Stratton shook his head, and his chin went down upon his chest in despair. There were sufficient reasons, for Brettison not choosing such a hiding-place as that. Detection in a short time was certain.
“Seems impossible,” thought Stratton; “but he must have taken it away.”
“Hadn’t you better go home?” said a gruff voice.
Stratton looked up, to find a burly policeman had stopped by his side, and was watching him keenly.
“Go—go home?” stammered Stratton.
“Yes, sir; that’s what I said. You don’t look well, and when people come and sit down here, feeling as you do, they sometimes lets their feelings get the better of ’em and jump off. Next moment they’re sorry for it, and call for help, often enough when no help can come. You go home, sir, and have a day or two in bed. You’ll come out again like a new man.”
Stratton frowned.
“You are making a mistake,” he said quietly. “I had no such thought as you imagine.”