Burnham pulled off the outer covering of the package with such vigor that its contents fell in a shower over the bed.
“It’s only your chess problem diagrams from Europe,” exclaimed Evelyn, picking up one which fell at her feet. “Why make such a fuss about them?” observing Burnham’s growing wrath.
He changed the subject with abruptness. “Your mother has repeatedly told you not to go to the door, Evelyn, but to wait for one of the servants. It is not dignified for you to answer the door bell.”
“I only went because I did not wish to keep Detective Mitchell standing on the steps any longer,” she protested, coloring under his rebuke. “Mr. Mitchell said you had telephoned for him.”
“So I did. Why didn’t you say at once that he was here?” glaring at her. “Ask him to come in,” and as Evelyn made for the door he added in an aside to Hayden: “When I send important messages I telephone from the library.” He leaned over and spoke in a confidential whisper. “I know I’m watched; they can’t fool me. Come in, Mitchell,” he called more loudly and frowned as Evelyn, her curiosity piqued by the situation, walked determinedly in behind the detective; then his frown changed to a smile and he dropped his eyes so that the others might not see the sudden crafty malice which lit them.
“Draw up a chair, Evelyn,” he suggested politely, but disregarding his remark she walked over to the bed and leaned against the footboard. Detective Mitchell likewise remained standing by Hayden and waited for Burnham to address him.
“Found the murderer yet?” asked Burnham.
“No, sir.”
“Identified the dead man?”
“Not yet, sir.” Mitchell shifted his weight somewhat and rested one hand on the bed. “It is only a matter of hours now.”