“Returned? Returned from where?”
“From my day off, sir.” Jones, with careful exactness, replaced the chair from where the coroner had taken it. “Can I get you anything, sir; sandwiches——?”
“Not a thing, thanks.” The coroner’s brusque manner cut short the butler’s loquaciousness. “Where’s the key to this clock?” A jerk of his finger indicated the mantel shelf.
“I don’t know, sir.” Jones stepped forward and peered along the shelf, his height giving him that advantage over the coroner’s stocky figure. “Isn’t it alongside the clock?”
“It is not.”
“Then you’ll have to ask the master,” replied Jones, and his manner had lost some of its servility. “Or Mrs. Burnham,” he added as an after-thought. “The key is generally kept on the shelf. Mr. Burnham’s very fussy about all the clocks in the house and we have strict orders not to meddle with any of them.”
“I see.” Penfield thought a moment, then walked over and, closing the hall door, locked it. He balanced the key in his fingers before pocketing it. “Tell Mr. Burnham I will return the key to-morrow,” he said by way of explanation as he stopped long enough to pick up his hat from the chess table where he had placed it on first entering the library, and then walked over to the door opening into Burnham’s bedroom. He waited until Jones had followed him into the latter room, then turned and locked that door, pocketing its key without hesitancy.
Before again addressing the waiting servant Penfield took a careful survey of Burnham’s bedroom. Its simple furniture appealed to him, as well as the neat array of long tables which, with built-up sides, resembled open card index drawers.
“What’s all this?” he asked, approaching the tables.
“Mr. Burnham keeps his chess problems and records filed there,” explained Jones. “He receives problems, he calls them, from all over the world; and the time he spends fussing over them!” Jones rolled his eyes. “It’s enough to make him daffy. Here, don’t touch ’em, sir,” as the coroner removed several chess problem diagrams. “Mr. Burnham will raise——” He stopped as Penfield, after a cursory glance at the red and black markings in the small squares, dropped the diagrams back into place. “Mr. Burnham’s terrible passionate when he’s roused, sir,” he added apologetically. “I only thought to caution you, and no offense was meant.”