“It’s a poor rule that doesn’t work both ways,” exclaimed Ethel, who had loitered behind for a second. “If Mr. Barclay’s bullet entered Mr. Patterson’s body, Mr. Mitchell, what became of the bullet which struck this safe—see the mark—and ricocheted from its bullet-proof surface. That bullet, if it did not strike Mr. Patterson in the back, had to go somewhere—now, where is it?”
The men stared at her in dumbfounded surprise, then simultaneously they wheeled about and gazed at the uninjured, unmarked wall paper down the hallway, and when they turned back to Ethel, their faces were as blank as the wall.
“Ethel, you’ve struck the nail on the head,” shouted Ogden loudly. “Now, Mitchell, take off those handcuffs and apologize to Mr. Barclay.”
Mitchell, with a bad grace, did the former but not the latter. “I have two bullets to trace now, instead of one,” he said. “But that does not exonerate you, Mr. Barclay; and you will have to accompany me to headquarters. I take it you will come peaceably?” dangling the handcuffs suggestively before returning them to his pocket.
“Certainly.” Barclay looked as if years had been taken from him. “And my cousin, Mr. Walter Ogden, will go surety for me, if you desire it.”
Ogden dropped the cigar he was lighting. “No,” he said, his face red from the exertion of stooping. “I am not a property owner in the district.”
“But I am,” put in Norcross. “I own this house, Mitchell, and if anything is wanted, call on me.”
Barclay paused to wring the professor’s hand, and when he turned back to the others Ethel and Lois were nowhere in sight. “You must come with me at once, Mr. Barclay,” insisted Mitchell at his elbow.
“Just a minute”—Barclay tore a leaf from his memorandum book, and scribbled:
Ethel: