The police found cigarette butts in an ash tray, the ends still moist.
“Did your boss roll his own cigarettes?” asked the sergeant.
“Possibly,” replied the butler. “Mr. Marsh has spent many years on the ranges, where men most invariably roll their own cigarettes.”
“There was two or three other persons in this room to-night,” declared a detective, who had been investigating beneath the balcony and had climbed in through the open window. “There’s three sets of tracks in the wet ground down there; a woman’s, one man who wore high heel shoes or boots, and another who wore ordinary shoes.”
“You’ve been with Mr. Marsh a long time, haven’t you?”
The sergeant directed his question at the butler.
“Six years, sir.”
“And in that length of time you have learned to keep your mouth shut, eh?”
“Quite likely, sir.”
“I thought so. That’s all. Marsh may be able to throw a little light on the subject, when he recovers.”