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Page 16
"Certainly, Mr. Ostrello," answered the policeman, and then the
commercial man stepped into the library, closing the door after him.
Adam Adams had passed into the dining room, just back of the library,
but had heard what was said. Now, looking through the doorway, which
had a sliding door and a heavy curtain, the latter partly drawn, he saw
the man glance around hurriedly, moving from one object to another in
the library. He looked under the table and the chairs, in the corners,
and even into the various bookcases. Then he came and knelt down
before the safe, and tried the knob of the combination half a dozen
times.
"He is more than ordinarily interested," reasoned the detective. "But
then it was his own mother who was murdered."
The commercial man continued his search until he had covered every
object in the room several times. He even looked behind the pictures,
and into the drawer of the table, something which had escaped the
coroner's eye when sealing up the desk. Adam Adams saw him shake his
head in despair. He took a turn up and down the apartment and clenched
his hands nervously.
"Gone!" he muttered to himself. "What could have become of it?"
He drew from his pocket a notebook he carried, and studied several
items carefully. A long sigh escaped from his lips as he restored the
notebook to his pocket.
As the commercial traveler moved toward the dining room, the detective
stepped into a side apartment, used in the winter as a conservatory.
He saw Thomas Ostrello make an examination of several places, including
a sideboard. Then the woman who had been placed in charge of the
downstairs portion of the mansion entered.
"Won't you have a bite to eat, Mr. Ostrello?" she asked.
"Perhaps so, later on. I do not feel like eating now. Can I take a
look at my mother's room?"
"Why, yes. I suppose you know where it is?"
"Certainly; I often visited her there when she was not feeling well,"
He passed out without another word, and was soon mounting the
heavily-carpeted stairs. Once in the room, he closed the door tightly.
Coming up softly after him, Adam Adams tried the door and found it
locked. More interested than ever, the detective, just avoiding Mrs.
Morse, who was passing through the hallway, slipped Into the adjoining
room, and finding, as he had imagined, a door between the two, applied
his eye to the keyhole.
This might mean nothing, and it might mean everything. He saw Mrs.
Langmore's son moving around the dressing room precisely as he had
moved around the library. He heard the bureau drawers opened and shut,
and then heard the squeak of a small writing desk that stood in a
corner, as the leaf was turned down. Then came a rattle of papers and
a sudden subdued exclamation. The desk was closed again, and the man
came out of the room, leaving the hall door partly open.
"Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it," reasoned the
detective. "Now, what was it?"
He waited in the hallway and heard Thomas Ostrello enter the dining
room. A minute later came the rattle of dishes. Then Mrs. Morse
confronted him.
"Back again, I see," she said rather sharply.
"Yes; I wish to have another talk with Miss Langmore," he returned,
and, brushing her aside, knocked on the girl's door, and was admitted.
The woman pursed up her lips.
"How very important some of those city lawyers are," she muttered.
"Think they know it all, I guess. Well, he'll have a job clearing her,
if what Coroner Busby says is true."
"Oh, I did not know you were coming back!" exclaimed Margaret. "Has
anything happened?"
"I want to know something about this, Miss Langmore," and he brought
out the torn and wet shirtwaist. "Is it yours?"
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