“I have,” responded Norcross, and turned at the sound of footsteps, and a second later Barclay joined the small group.
“Asking for revolvers, Mitchell?” he inquired coolly. “I have one,” and simultaneously the two men went to their respective rooms, leaving Ethel staring in troubled silence at the detective.
Before she could ask the question Mitchell felt coming, Norcross was back, revolver in hand. Mitchell took it, examined it critically, selected a shell from its breech, snapped it shut and returned it to Norcross just as Barclay rejoined them. His revolver was likewise subjected to a prolonged examination, and a cartridge extracted, marked, and slipped into the detective’s pocket.
“Thanks,” said Mitchell, handing the revolver back to Barclay. “That is all I wished, I won’t detain you longer.”
“Oh, wait.” Ethel without a glance at Norcross and Barclay, followed Mitchell down the back hall. “Let us go and examine the débris which you said was downstairs.”
“Certainly,” and Mitchell made way for her to precede him. In the basement they found Charles just closing the house.
“The débris, is it?” he exclaimed on Mitchell stating what they wished. “Sure, it’s all here,” and Ethel, regardless of her white gown, dropped on her knees beside the bucket of trash and ashes. Dumping the pail on a newspaper spread out by the attentive Charles, Ethel ran her fingers through the mass, but without results—there was no trace of her miniature.
“What’s this?” Mitchell, searching with her, pulled out a piece of white flannel, and rising examined the dark stains on it under the light. Suddenly he raised the flannel and sniffed at it.
“Powder stains,” he exclaimed, thrusting the oily, dirty cloth under Ethel’s nose. “Where did you get this piece of flannel, Charles?” as the butler returned from a trip to the kitchen.
“Oh, that?” inspecting the flannel. “Sure, Mr. Julian Barclay used that to clean his revolver this mornin’—you wouldn’t be wantin’ me to leave a dhirty bit like that in his room, Miss Ethel, would ye?” turning to her.