"Would it not be quite an easy matter for some one who had obtained possession of your key, and was sufficiently familiar with the bearings of the office to move about in the dark, or by the dim fire-light, to enter that office, remove the surgeon's knife from its case, pilfer a handkerchief from the coat pocket, and escape unseen?"
"It would—I should think."
"If this person having the key, the knife, and the handkerchief, all in his possession, should go and fling them all into the old cellar on the Burns' place, you would call that singular?"
"Yes," from lips white and parched.
O'Meara turns suddenly and takes something from the table.
"Mr. Lamotte, take this key, examine it well. Does it at all resemble the one you—lost?"
Frank takes the key, mechanically, turns it about with nerveless fingers, scarcely glances at it.
"I think—it is—the same," he mutters, hoarsely.
"You think it is your lost key. Mr. Lamotte, do you know where this key was found?"
"No," stolidly.