“Mr. Hale,”—he spoke with growing impressiveness—“I found Austin Hale lying dead in this room on Wednesday morning—he was lying within a few feet of your open safe. The door had not been forced; therefore it must have been opened by some one having the combination.” He paused and the silence lengthened; abruptly he broke it. “Please examine your safe, Mr. Hale, and see if any money or documents are missing.”
“Wait, Robert.” The caution came from Mrs. Hale, and her husband looked at her with marked displeasure. For the moment he had forgotten her presence. “You must not overexert yourself,” she continued. “Let me look in the safe?”
Robert Hale was on his feet before she had finished speaking.
“Don’t worry about me,” he exclaimed tartly. “I know what I am about, Agatha,” and he walked somewhat unsteadily over to the safe, the others following until they grouped themselves about him as he knelt down. There was a distinct pause as he fumbled with the dial.
Mrs. Hale’s anxiety grew—would her husband never get the door open? She was again about to intercede as she noted the paleness of his face and his heavy breathing, but the door suddenly swung open and the remonstrance remained unspoken.
Pushing his heavy gray hair off his forehead, Hale moved closer to the safe, and without haste examined every compartment, then, supported by his attentive wife, he rose painfully to his feet and dropped into a chair.
“My papers and my wife’s jewelry are intact,” he stated.
Ferguson replaced his fountain pen and memorandum pad in his pocket.
“That settles it,” he declared. “Robbery was not the motive. The murder of Austin Hale was an inside job——”
“You are wrong,” John Hale’s voice rang out loudly and echoed through the large room. “Robbery was the motive.”