“Who may have been lying or mistaken,” Eden suggested.
“Yes—his tale seems unbelievable, I admit. Without any evidence to back it up, I wouldn’t pay much attention to it. However, we have that evidence. Don’t forget Tony’s impassioned remarks, and his subsequent taking off. More important still, there is Bill Hart’s gun, with two empty chambers. Also the bullet-hole in the wall. What more do you want?”
“Oh, it seems to be well substantiated,” Eden agreed.
“It is. No doubt about it—somebody was shot at this place Wednesday night. We thought at first Thorn was the killer, now we switch to Madden. Madden lured somebody to Thorn’s room, or cornered him there, and killed him. Why? Because he was afraid of him? We think hard about Wednesday night—and what do we want to know? We want to know—who was the third man?”
“The third man?” Eden repeated.
“Precisely. Ignore the prospector—who was at the ranch? Madden and Thorn—yes. And one other. A man who, seeing his life in danger, called loudly for help. A man who, a moment later, lay on the floor beyond the bed, and whose shoes alone were visible from where the prospector stood. Who was he? Where did he come from? When did he arrive? What was his business? Why was Madden afraid of him? These are questions to which we must now seek answers. Am I right, Sergeant Chan?”
“Undubitably,” Charlie replied. “And how shall we find those answers? By searching, perhaps. Humbly suggest we search.”
“Every nook and corner of this ranch,” agreed Holley. “We’ll begin with Madden’s desk. Some stray bit of correspondence may throw unexpected light. It’s locked, of course. But I’ve brought along a pocketful of old keys—got them from a locksmith in town.”
“You act like number one detective,” Chan remarked.
“Thanks,” answered Holley. He went over to the big, flat-topped desk belonging to the millionaire and began to experiment with various keys. In a few moments he found the proper one and all the drawers stood open.
“Splendid work,” said Chan.
“Not much here, though,” Holley declared. He removed the papers from the top left-hand drawer and laid them on the blotting-pad. Bob Eden lighted a cigarette and strolled away. Somehow this idea of inspecting Madden’s mail did not appeal to him.
The representatives of the police and the Press, however, were not so delicately minded. For more than half an hour Chan and the editor studied the contents of Madden’s desk. They found nothing, save harmless and understandable data of business deals, not a solitary scrap that could by the widest stretch of the imagination throw any light on the identity or meaning of the third man. Finally, perspiring and baffled, they gave up and the drawers were relocked.
“Well,” said Holley, “not so good, eh? Mark the desk off our list and let’s move on.”
“With your permission,” Chan remarked, “we divide the labours. For you gentlemen the inside of the house. I myself have fondly feeling for outdoors.” He disappeared. One by one Holley and Eden searched the rooms. In the bedroom occupied by the secretary they saw for themselves the bullet-hole in the wall. An investigation of the bureau, however, revealed the fact that Bill Hart’s pistol was no longer there. This was their sole discovery of any interest.
“We’re up against it,” admitted Holley at length, his cheerful manner waning. “Madden’s a clever man, and he didn’t leave a warm trail, of course. But somehow—somewhere—”
They returned to the living-room. Chan, hot and puffing, appeared suddenly at the door. He dropped into a chair.
“What luck, Charlie?” Eden inquired.
“None whatever,” admitted Chan gloomily. “Heavy disappointment causes my heart to sag. No gambler myself, but would have offered huge wager something buried on this ranch. When Madden, having shot, remarked, ‘Shut up and forget. I was afraid and I killed. Now, think quick what we had better do,’ I would expect first thought is—burial. How else to dispose of dead? So just now I have examined every inch of ground, with highest hope. No good. If burial made, it was not here. I see by your faces you have similar bafflement to report.”
“Haven’t found a thing,” Eden replied.
Chan sighed. “I drag the announcement forth in pain,” he said. “But I now gaze solemnly at stone wall.”
They sat in helpless silence. “Well, let’s not give up yet,” Bob Eden remarked. He leaned back in his chair and blew a ring of smoke toward the panelled ceiling. “By the way, has it ever occurred to you that there must be some sort of attic above this room?”
Chan was instantly on his feet. “Clever suggestion,” he cried. “Attic, yes, but how to ascend?” He stood staring at the ceiling a moment, then went quickly to a large closet in the rear of the room. “Somewhat humiliated situation for me,” he announced. Crowding close beside him in the dim closet, the other two looked aloft at an unmistakable trap-door.
Bob Eden was selected for the climb, and with the aid of a stepladder Chan brought from the barn he managed it easily. Holley and the detective waited below. For a moment Eden stood in the attic, his head bent low, cobwebs caressing his face, while he sought to accustom his eyes to the faint light.
“Nothing here, I’m afraid,” he called. “Oh, yes, there is. Wait a minute.”
They heard him walking gingerly above, and clouds of dust descended on their heads. Presently he was lowering a bulky object through the narrow trap—a battered old Gladstone bag.
“Seems to be something in it,” Eden announced.
They took it with eager hands, and set it on the desk in the sunny living-room. Bob Eden joined them.
“By gad,” the boy said, “not much dust on it,
