“Yes. After the inquest I called Cleveland on the long distance, talked with the City Club officials and with Police Headquarters; all declared that Rochester was not there, and no trace could be found of his having ever arrived in the city.”
Clymer laid down his half smoked cigar and stared at the detective.
“You think then that Rochester has bolted?” he asked.
“It looks that way,” insisted Ferguson. “How about it, Mr. Kent?” The question was put with a touch of arrogance.
Kent did not reply immediately. Every fact that Ferguson had brought out fitted the situation, and Rochester's disappearance added color to the detective's charges. Why was he hiding unless from guilty motives, and where had he gone? Kent shook a bewildered head.
“It is plausible,” he conceded, “but, after all, only circumstantial evidence.”
“Well, circumstantial evidence is good enough for me to work on,” retorted Ferguson. “On discovering that the telegram from Cleveland was a hoax, I concluded Rochester might be lurking around Washington and so sent a description of him to the different precincts and secured a search warrant.”
“You did?”
“Yes. Armed with it I visited Mr. Rochester's apartment, but couldn't find a clew to his present whereabouts,” admitted Ferguson. “So then I went to your office, Mr. Kent, and ransacked the firm's safe.”
“Confound you!” Kent leaned forward in his wrath and shook his fist at the detective. “What right had you to do such a thing?”