“Nonsense; we don’t want to be alone.” Burnham spoke with great vehemence and his three companions looked at him in surprise. With an effort he strove to gain control over his emotion. “That—that man’s death is getting on our nerves,” he admitted, and the hand holding his wine glass shook. “Neither my wife nor I feel the same since the tragedy; it’s so—so devilish mysterious.”
“The police will soon clear it up,” said Hayden cheerily. “Give them time, Burnham.”
“I would, if I had any faith in their methods,” Burnham rejoined. “What have they done to date? Nothing.”
“Apparently not a thing,” amended Maynard. “The police don’t tell everything they know, Burnham; they may have unearthed a whole lot which will come out at the inquest.”
“Then I wish they would hold the trial,” Burnham tossed down his napkin. “There is no reason in such secrecy; let them arrest the murderer at once.”
“Before they can do that they must establish the identity of the dead man.” Maynard waited until Siki had removed his plate, then continued, “that is the logical end to work from in solving the riddle.”
Dr. Hayden nodded his agreement. “The police are working along those lines,” he said. “To date they have made but negative progress, and yet——” He paused until Siki departed with the empty chafing dish.
“What were you going to say?” demanded Burnham.
“Only that I stopped to see Coroner Penfield this afternoon and found him working in his laboratory; he was making a test of the dead man’s hair. You noticed perhaps,” he broke off to ask Maynard who was sitting forward in his chair, “that the man’s hair was very closely cropped?”
“Yes,” he responded. “It was so short that it made his head look bullet shaped.”