The three strings

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

With something very like an oath Penfield straightened up from his fruitless search and again transferred his attention to the library. Four questions confronted him: the identification of the dead man, how he had been carried into the library, from where, and by whom.

The coroner stared at each piece of furniture, at every section and corner of the large room, but no solution of the problem met his eager gaze in his orderly surroundings. His idea of being of aid to Detective Mitchell by a quiet examination of the room was a failure; no new viewpoint of the crime had presented itself.

Penfield turned restlessly about and faced the massive carved mantel which added much to the attractiveness of the library. The high brass andirons, their globe-shaped tops reaching almost to his chest, were badly in need of polishing, and the fire irons and screen were equally dingy. They were the only furnishings of the room which showed the result of closing the house during the summer months.

Penfield’s eyes traveled upward and along the high shelf of the mantel, which stood some distance above his head. The small bronze figures on either end of the shelf were handsome, but his eyes did not linger on them and passed on to the next objects, candlesticks, and then were focused on the center ornament—the mantel clock.

The clock was evidently of French make, and the coroner admired the handsome gilt work which encased the glass globe inside of which were exposed the works of the clock, its dial, and the pendulum, which in that instance was obviously the loose base of the clock, and revolved slowly half around and back again as the seconds and minutes were ticked off. But it was the dial of the clock which had claimed the coroner’s wandering attention. Taking out his note book, he turned its pages hurriedly until he came to an entry under the date of Tuesday of that week: “Clock in library going at time of discovery of dead man, and time registered accurate to the minute with my watch.”

Penfield frowned at the clock. How had he come to overlook questioning Evelyn regarding the clock? Had she set it going on entering the library Tuesday morning? If she had not, it would effectually prove his theory that some one had occupied the house in the absence of the Burnhams. Penfield brightened; he had found something tangible to work on after all by refreshing his memory in his re-examination of the room.

Standing on tip-toe, for his medium height did not permit his reaching behind the clock, Penfield felt along the shelf for a key to the clock. Meeting with no success, he pulled forward a chair and mounting it, looked behind the clock, then under the bronze figures, and lastly under the candlesticks, but he could find no trace of a key. He next essayed to open the glass door of the clock, but the catch stuck and pull as he might he could not open it. A discreet cough behind him interrupted his efforts and he swung about with such speed that he almost lost his balance. Jones, the butler, laid a steadying hand on his chair.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said contritely. “I thought you heard me come in, sir.”

The coroner sprang down from the chair. “What is it you wish?” he demanded.

“The housekeeper said I was to report to you that I had returned, sir.”