“I wish to see Mr. Vaughn. Is he at home?”
“I am Mr. Vaughn. What can I do for you?”
The reply was agreeably made, but with a gravity Chick was quick to observe and attributed to the death of one of the household.
“I am sorry to trouble you at such a time,” he rejoined. “My name is Carter. I am a detective. The apartments of your neighbor, Mr. Strickland, have been robbed this evening, and I——”
“Robbed!” Mr. Vaughn exclaimed, interrupting with a quick display of surprise and consternation. “Dear me, is it possible? Robbed of what, Mr. Carter?”
“Of several very valuable paintings, many of his art treasures, and his almost priceless Stradivarius, together with——”
“Oh, oh, that is dreadful!” Mr. Vaughn again interposed. “Strickland is such a fine old gentleman. I am sorry for him, more than sorry for him. Come in, Mr. Carter. Can I be of any assistance?”
Chick accepted the invitation and stepped into the hall. Through the open door of an adjoining parlor, dimly lighted by the rays from the hall lamp, he could see a closed casket on a bier, also numerous boxes of flowers, evidently prepared for removal the following day.
Observing his furtive glance in that direction, Mr. Vaughn said gravely, while he considerately closed the door of the room:
“My aunt, who long has been the housekeeper for my sister and myself, died suddenly of heart failure yesterday morning. She is to be taken to Springfield to-morrow for burial. Step into the library, Mr. Carter. Clarissa will be terribly shocked by Mr. Strickland’s misfortune. She is really fond of the old gentleman, and often runs in to see him and hear him play on his rare old Strad.[Pg 9] Stolen—that is too bad! It will be a terrible loss to him.”