“Three years.”
“Any trouble collecting your wages?”
Joe saw the servant’s face flame. “Trouble? Why, the tight-fisted, old skin-flint——. Do you know how much he’s paid me this last year? A couple of dollars here and there when I could wring it out of him. And now he’s dead, and where am I going to collect the four hundred dollars he owes me?”
“Did you say four hundred dollars, Cagge?” King asked softly.
“I said four hundred dollars and I mean four hundred dollars.” Like a shadow, almost without sound, the man was gone. The clatter of a pan came from the kitchen.
Otis King tapped a cigarette against a silver case. Joe’s hands had gone dry. Somewhere in the house a clock struck seven.
“Four!” King said thoughtfully. “What would you call that, Doctor, coincidence or—something else? Many a man has killed for less than four hundred dollars.”
Dr. Stone stood up. Holding to the harness-handle of the dog’s leash he spoke to the four men who watched him intently. “Would a murderer first tell that his victim kept muttering ‘Four, four,’ and then add that the slain man owed him four hundred dollars? Lady, upstairs.” The shepherd dog guided him across the room skillfully preventing him from bumping into chairs and furniture. With his feet on the first tread he spoke again. “It wasn’t Cagge, gentlemen.”
“Do you always leap at conclusions?” Otis King asked insolently.
“I usually keep off paths other men mark for me,” the doctor said quietly.