“What were cartridges doing in your den, Mr. Ogden?”
“I put two boxes in my desk drawer on my return from a hunting trip in Maine last fall.”
“When you found the den was on fire, did you remember the cartridges?”
“No. I had completely forgotten them, and only thought of them again when the fire reached the boxes and exploded them.”
“Who first discovered the fire?”
“One of the servants, I believe. Some one called ‘Fire,’ and we all dashed into the hall,” answered Ogden vaguely. “I really don’t know who turned in the fire alarm.”
Penfield consulted a memorandum. “When did you last see Mr. James Patterson alive?” he asked.
“Helping my wife and my cousin, Miss Ethel Ogden, to cross the lower hall, which was filled with smoke, to reach the sidewalk,” answered Ogden thoughtfully. “I cannot recall seeing him again. I accompanied the firemen upstairs, and Patterson may have brushed by me on the staircase; but if so, I did not recognize him in the smoke and general excitement.”
“I think that is all just now, Mr. Ogden,” Penfield laid down his memorandum, and turned to the Morgue Master. “Ask Professor Norcross to step here.”
Ogden rose with alacrity to give his seat to the professor and went hastily from the room, conscious that reporters were eyeing him apparently eager for an interview. But he did not loiter in closing the door between himself and the news-gatherers, and the reporters turned their eyes back to Professor Norcross.