"Where was the handkerchief found?" demanded The Thinking Machine, at last.
"Here," replied West, and he indicated the exact spot.
"Any draught through the office--ever?"
"None. We have a patent ventilating system which prevents that."
The Thinking Machine squinted for several minutes at the window which had been unfastened--the window in the cashier's private room--with the steel bars guarding it, now torn out of their sockets, and at the chalklike softness of the granite about the sockets. After awhile he turned to the president and cashier.
"Where is the handkerchief?"
"In my desk," Fraser replied. "The police thought it of no consequence, save, perhaps--perhaps----," and he looked at West.
"Except that it might implicate me," said West, hotly.
"Tut, tut, tut," said Fraser, reprovingly. "No one thinks for a----"
"Well, well, the handkerchief?" interrupted The Thinking Machine, in annoyance.