this room to rights,” explained Thomas apologetically, “till the coroner sent us word we might. He ain’t sent no word yet.”
It was evident that Drysdale had been packing very hastily when he was interrupted by the arrival of the officers. The clothing which was in the trunk had been crammed in carelessly—though, of course, that might have been done by the coroner, after searching it.
“Drysdale evidently didn’t spend much time in bed that night,” observed Godfrey, and indicated a pile of cigarette stubs heaped high on an ash-tray on the table. “He must have had some knotty problem to wrestle with to need so many.”
He walked slowly about the room, looking at everything keenly, but touching nothing; he stood gazing at the bed for a long time. Then he turned again to the table.
“Here’s the diary,” he said, picking up a little book which lay there. “So Heffelbower didn’t get it. Well, I guess I’d better see that he doesn’t have another chance.”
He weighed it in his hand, and I could see how it tempted him—perhaps here lay the very key which he had been seeking in vain! But in a moment he slipped it unopened into his pocket.
“A man is a fool to make promises,” he observed, with a wry smile, and sat down at the table. “Hello, what’s this?” he added suddenly, and, stooping, he fished from the waste-basket beside him the fragments of a cane.
It was a cane certainly of at least ordinary strength,
