Robert hadn't an enemy in the world, that I know of," he said musingly; "so it must have been a burglar or marauder of some sort."
"Very unusual method for a burglar," said I, thinking of the hat-pin. "Would you mind if I looked about a little bit? I'd like to find the other end of that pin."
"What pin?" asked Lawrence.
"The pin that killed your uncle. The doctors say it was a hat-pin, broken off close to the flesh."
"A hat-pin? How awful!"
The young man gave a shudder, as if sensitive to gruesome pictures.
"Yes," I went on; "and if we could find the head end that broke off, it might be a clue to the murderer."
"Oh, yes, I see. Well, certainly, go and look about all you choose. But excuse me from that sort of thing. I'll get the best detectives, if necessary, but I can't do anything in that way myself."
I readily understood this attitude in one so closely related to the victim of the dreadful deed, and at his permission I determined to search the whole apartment thoroughly. We had been alone during this conversation, as Doctor Masterson had returned to his late patient's room, and the servant, Charlotte, had not reappeared.
I went directly to Mr. Pembroke's bedroom, but when there, I hesitated for a moment before addressing Doctor Masterson.
And then he spoke first; "I freely confess," he said, "that I owe to Doctor Post the discovery of the truth. I was positive it was not a natural death, but my old eyes failed to detect that tiny speck that gave us the solution. However, that does not give Doctor Post the right to pry into the affairs of the Pembroke household. It is now a case for the Coroner, and no one else has a right to interfere."
"I appreciate your attitude, Doctor Masterson," I returned, "but Mr. Lawrence, who is, of course, in authority, has given me permission to search this room, and in fact the whole apartment, for possible clues that may help to solve the mystery."
"Humph," grunted the old Doctor, peering at me through his glasses; "if George says so, of course you may do what you like, but I warn you you'd better let the matter alone."
"Have you any suspicions?" I asked suddenly.
"Suspicions? Goodness, no! How could I have any suspicions? You must be crazy!" And without another word the old man hurriedly left the room.
After this exhibition of anger on his part, I felt myself in an unpleasant position. Perhaps I had been over-zealous in my desire to be of service to Miss Pembroke. Perhaps there were clues or evidences better left undiscovered. But, pshaw! such ideas were absurd. Robert Pembroke had been murdered. It was the duty of any American citizen to do anything in his power toward the discovery of the criminal.
Convinced of this, I set to work at once to make a thorough search of the room for anything that might seem indicative.
I merely glanced at the quiet figure lying on the bed, for such evidence as that might show must be determined by the coroner's physicians. I was only seeking stray clues that might otherwise be overlooked, and that might prove to be of value.
Seating myself in front of the open desk, I noted the carefully filed and labeled documents that filled its pigeon-holes.
I could not bring myself to look into these; for though Lawrence had given me unlimited permission, I felt that this personal sort of investigation should be made only by a member of the family.
But in plain view lay a rubber band and a pencilled memorandum which appeared to have been hastily thrown down. The paper slip seemed to show a receipt for ten thousand dollars brought to Robert Pembroke in payment for some stock sold by his brokers. This might all be an unimportant business detail, but in view of the otherwise tidy condition of the desk, it seemed to me to indicate that the intruder had stolen the money or security noted on the slip, leaving the paper and rubber band behind him.
I might be over-fanciful, but there was certainly no harm in preserving this possible evidence, and I put the slip of paper and the rubber band in my pocket-book.
I saw nothing further of interest about the desk, and I turned my attention to the waste basket. On top of a few other torn papers lay the two stubs of theater tickets, which I had myself thrown there, before I knew that there was a crime in question.
I transferred the two bits of paper to my pocket-book and proceeded to investigate further the torn papers in the basket. They seemed to me to have no bearing whatever upon the case, being mostly circulars, receipted small bills, or ordinary business notes.
However, toward the bottom, I found a torn telegram, which pieced together read, "Expect me on Wednesday evening."
It was addressed to Robert Pembroke, and it was signed J. S.
Of course I put this away with my other findings, for though it might be of no importance whatever, yet the contrary might be equally true.
Rising from the desk, I saw a folded paper on the floor near by and picked it up. This proved to be a time-table of local trains on the Lackawanna Railroad. It was not probable that the burglar had left this as a clue to his travels,—it was more likely that it had belonged to Mr. Pembroke or his niece,—but I put it in my pocket, with the general idea of collecting any evidence possible.
Further minute search of the floor revealed nothing whatever but an ordinary hair-pin. With two women in the household, this was not an astonishing find, but I kept it, among my other acquisitions.
At last, feeling convinced that there was nothing more to be learned from the room, I was about to leave it, when I paused by the bedside. Near the foot of the bed, and outside the counterpane, I noticed a handkerchief. I picked it up and its large size proved it to belong to a man. Though slightly crumpled, it was quite fresh, and in the corner three small letters, W. S. G. were embroidered in fine white stitches. These initials were not Robert Pembroke's, and there were of course many plausible explanations of the presence of the handkerchief. But since it didn't seem to represent the property of any member of the household, I felt myself justified in folding it carefully and putting it in my pocket.
As I left the room I cast a final glance around it, feeling certain that a more skilled detective would have discovered many things that I had overlooked, and probably would have scorned to look upon as clues the collection of articles I had pocketed.
But knowing nothing of the personality or habits of Robert Pembroke, it was difficult indeed to judge intelligently the contents and condition of his bedroom.
Chapter VI.
The Inquest Begins
When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the coroner had already arrived, accompanied by Inspector Crawford.
Mr. Ross, the coroner, looked like a capable, active man, while Mr. Crawford's face wore the blank and inscrutable expression which is supposed to be part of the detective's stock in trade. I have often wondered whether this imperturbability is not used quite as often to cloak utter ignorance as to hide secret knowledge.
They had been in the house but a few moments, and Doctor Masterson was making them acquainted with the main facts of the case. Young Lawrence was assisting in the recital, but whether because of his natural disinclination for gruesome subjects, or because of his relationship with the dead man, he seemed unwilling to talk, and referred all questions to Doctor Masterson.
I took a seat, and remained a mere listener; as I knew it was not yet the time to tell of any discoveries I might have made.
But beyond a brief introduction by the aged doctor and a brief acknowledgment of it by the coroner, little attention was paid to me, and I listened with interest to Mr. Ross's pertinent questions and quick decisions.
Being possessed of the facts of the case, and having learned all that those present could tell him, the Coroner