“It is very unfortunate,” agreed Mrs. Burnham, as Penfield paused, finding himself getting somewhat involved in his statement. “Have you and the police discovered the name of the individual who had the temerity to commit suicide in my house?”
“He did not commit suicide.” Penfield was losing patience and the faint smile on Maynard’s face nettled him. “The man was murdered.”
“Murdered!” Except for the exclamation Mrs. Burnham sat bolt upright silently regarding Penfield who bore her fixed stare as long as he could and then changed his position.
“We haven’t been able to identify the man so far,” he went on to say. “We have searched the Rogues’ Gallery, photographers’ studios, telegraphed his description to other cities, and no clue.”
“And no clue?” Mrs. Burnham’s repetition of the words was parrot-like in its mimicry. “Did the dead man have no papers in his pocket? Were his clothes unmarked?”
“They were,” replied Penfield. “The only article to be found in the man’s pockets was a string.” He turned abruptly to Maynard. “You recall seeing the string?”
“I do.”
Penfield looked relieved. “I am glad you do,” he exclaimed. “This case puzzles me, and I have given it so much thought that I concluded I had imagined the string.”
Burnham, who had seated himself near his wife, looked up.
“Have you the string?” he asked.