Kent crossed the library and, after looking inside the casket, examined the exterior with care.
“Don't touch that crest,” cautioned Ferguson, observing that Kent's glance remained focused on the blood-stained, raised letter “B” and the carving back of it. “In fact, don't touch any part of the casket, I'm trying to get finger prints.”
Kent barely heard the warning as he turned to McIntyre.
“Haven't I seen that letter 'B' design on your stationery, Colonel?” he asked.
“Barbara uses it,” was the reply. “She fancied the antique lettering, and copied the 'B' for the engraver; she is handy with her pen, you know.”
“Did she wish the 'B' for a seal?” inquired Kent.
“Yes, she had a seal made like it also.” McIntyre moved closer to the casket. “Found anything, Ferguson?”
The detective withdrew his head from the opening at the end of the casket, and regarded the furniture vexedly.
“Not a thing,” he acknowledged. “Except I am convinced that it required dexterity to slip Grimes inside the casket. The butler is small and slight, but he must have been unconscious from that tap on the forehead and, therefore, a dead weight. Whoever picked him up must have been some athlete, and”—running his eyes up and down Colonel McIntyre's well-knit, erect frame—“pretty familiar with the workings of this casket.”
“Pooh! It's not so difficult a feat,” McIntyre shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “My daughters, as children, used to play hide and seek inside the casket with each new governess.”