"Well, all through?" he asked, genially, and with the manner of one whose position is assured.
"Yes, I think so," said Ashton-Kirk.
"We covered it all pretty well outside there," nodded Osborne, complacently, "and we got nothing from it. Depend on it, this thing was an inside job. The party that did it belonged right here in the house."
"Too bad," mused Ashton-Kirk, as he looked about the comfortable, homelike room. "Too bad! That will mean that another home is wrecked; and this one seems decidedly worth keeping together—nice etching and rugs and some very good bits of old brass." He took up a candlestick from the end of a shelf. "Here is a real old Colonial candlestick which must weigh at least five pounds."
Osborne looked at the piece, grimly.
"If Tom Burton were alive," said he, "he might be able to tell you something about the weight of such things. It was with just such another he was killed."
"Oh, indeed!" Ashton-Kirk replaced the candlestick upon the shelf and dusted his fingers with a handkerchief. "Well, we'll be running along, Osborne." They shook hands with the detective. "Sorry we hadn't any better luck."
"So am I," said Osborne, still complacently. "But it breaks that way sometimes. We can't turn up new stuff where it doesn't exist."
"True," said Ashton-Kirk, as he descended from the porch to the paved walk. "That's very true. But thank you just the same. And good-bye."
And so with Scanlon at his side, he set off at a smart pace toward the railroad station.