“Who knew the combination of the safe?”
“Only Rochester and I.”
It was Ferguson's turn to spring up “By—!” he exclaimed. “I thought the electric bulbs in the office felt warm, as if they had recently been burning—Rochester must have been there just before me.”
“It would seem that Rochester is still in the city,” remarked Clymer. “Do you know, Kent, whether he had his office keys with him?”
“I presume so,” Kent slipped his hand inside his pocket and took out a bunch of keys. “He left these duplicates in his desk at the office.”
“Sure they are duplicates?” questioned Ferguson, and Kent flushed.
“I know they are,” he retorted. “Rochester had them made over a year ago as a matter of convenience, for he was always forgetting his keys, and kept these at our office.”
“He's a queer cuss,” was the detective's only comment and Clymer broke into the conversation.
“Did you find any address or paper in the safe which might prove a clew, Ferguson?” he inquired.
“Nothing, not even a scrap of paper,” and the detective's tone was glum.