“I proclaim nothing,” denied Penfield. “On the contrary, I am first most anxious to question the servants, Mr. Hale, and your wife—the only people, according to your statement, at home when this man was killed—and find out if possible what transpired here in your absence.”
“You cannot do that now,” interposed Richards hastily. “Mr. Hale and my wife are not in condition to be interviewed at this hour—later in the day, perhaps”—Ferguson gave a gesture of dissent.
“And in the meantime,” he interposed harshly, “the murderer will slip through our fingers, and every clew grow cold.”
“Not necessarily,” replied Richards warmly. “You are at liberty to examine this floor and the basement at the present time, only I must insist that you do not disturb either my wife or Mr. Hale.”
“Very well, sir.” Ferguson turned toward the folding doors leading to the central hall. “Where are the servants’ bedrooms?”
“On the third floor.” At the words the detective vanished.
Richards rose from his perch on the chair arm and paced slowly up and down the library. Penfield, paying no attention to his movements, knelt down by the dead man and with infinite care went through his pockets. His search produced some loose change, a bill-folder containing nearly a hundred dollars, and a bunch of keys.
“Not much help for identification purposes,” he remarked dryly, as Richards halted by his side. “He was a handsome fellow; women rave over that type of beauty in a man. He looks a gentleman—high-bred, and all that.”
“He could not have been in destitute circumstances,” commented Richards, pointing to the Treasury bills.
“Hm—yes,” Penfield looked thoughtful. “It might be that he rifled this money from Mr. Hale’s safe.” He wheeled suddenly on Richards. “What did Mr. Hale keep in his safe?”