“They were stolen from me last night,” admitted Val. “But the bundle that was left here⸺”
“That was taken, too,” said the sergeant.
Val’s eyes clouded for an instant. But then, of course, they would be, he decided. Undoubtedly the thief, whoever he was, knew that Masterson had retained half of the books. Probably he had refused to give them up without a struggle. He hardly supposed that they really intended to kill the old man when plainly the only purpose or motive in the whole affair seemed to be, for some inexplicable reason, to get back the books.
“Nothing else in the place was touched,” announced the detective, noting, in some measure, what was going on in Val’s mind.
“Now, if we could get hold of the woman in the case⸺” he began.
“What do you mean, ‘the woman in the case’?” inquired Val, although he knew well enough what was meant. He was sparring for time. It took no very acute mind to see the trend in which the investigation was to go—at any rate, at present. The woman was all they had to tie up to, as things stood now. If they could get hold of her, though she was innocent—as Val hastened to admit to himself—they could perhaps get some information as to what was going on, as to what motivated the events of the last two days, and—perhaps—the slayer himself. But Val had seen from the first instant of his entry here that the woman’s name must be kept out of it. Innocent or not, it would be a distinctly unpleasant and unwholesome position for a girl with copper burnished hair and eyes like twin mountain pools in the moonlight, or was
