“Beg pardon!” said a voice from the doorway, and Ethel started violently. “Miss Ogden, is it not?” Ethel looked at the well-dressed man in the doorway and nodded. “I did not mean to startle you, Miss Ogden. I have been watching you for several minutes.”
“Indeed!” Ethel flushed with indignation.
“I thought you saw me,” hastily. “I am Mitchell, from the central office,” displaying his badge. “Have you found any trace of your miniature?”
“No,” Ethel mollified by the detective’s gentlemanly appearance and quiet manner, looked eagerly toward him. “Have you searched for it?”
“Yes, but I can’t find it high or low,” admitted Mitchell. He came closer to her. “I believe the man who has that miniature killed Patterson.”
Ethel recoiled. “No!” she declared vehemently, and Mitchell looked at her oddly. “It must be somewhere around, dropped in some crevice or crack.” She bent over the wreck of a chair and fumbled about, more anxious to conceal her expression from Mitchell’s inquiring gaze than in the hopes of finding anything.
“Charles, the butler, has just admitted that before the fire chief gave orders to have everything left just as it was, he carried some of the débris down into the basement,” volunteered Mitchell. “It’s just possible your miniature may be in it.”
“Oh, let us go and see,” Ethel sprang impulsively for the door and collided with Professor Norcross. “Excuse me!”
“It was my fault,” Norcross laughed as he helped her regain her balance, then his eyes lighted on the detective. “Charles brought me word that you wished to see me, Mitchell.”
“I did, sir.” Mitchell stepped out into the hall. “I called to ask if you have a revolver.”