“Of course it’s in this house. It’s in the pocket of my sweater,” answered Polly, indignantly. “If you think I let him out——” She was too angry to continue.
“Well, he didn’t get out by the window because it’s shut, and there’s no chimney for him to melt out of.”
“Look here, Marc Scott, ain’t you ashamed of yourself? Coming here and talking to ladies like that—and in the middle of the night, too.” Mrs. Van Zandt was as angry as the other two. “That key couldn’t get out of this house to-night without my knowing it. He’s brainy enough to get out without help, that fellow.”
“He may be brainy, but he’s hardly brilliant enough to go through a locked door,” said Scott, obstinately. “Somebody let him out, that’s all. If you’ll be kind enough to look for the key, Miss Street, and see if it’s been taken away——”
“How could it be? From my room?” demanded Polly, angrily.
“Are you going to hold an inquest over it?” asked Mrs. Van, cuttingly. “I see the jury coming along.”
Johnson, O’Grady and Hard were coming across the street. Polly drew her blanket closely around her and tucked one bare foot behind the other. Her reddish colored braids gave her a squaw-like appearance in the darkness.
“It’s all right, Scotty, don’t stir up the community,” called Hard, cheerfully. “I’m the guilty party.”
“You!”
“It never dawned on me till I saw the unlocked door,” confessed Hard, with a chuckle. “The chap must have found that old bunch of keys that’s been knocking around in the pocket of my old office coat. I’m afraid that’s where he got the knife that did for poor Yellow, too.”