and forefinger of his right hand. “How do you account for it? That’s the question.” Thrusting his hand into his jacket pocket, he drew out a short-stemmed briar pipe, stuffed it to overflowing with long cut tobacco and began puffing furiously. “I don’t think we’ll accomplish much huddled in here,” he suggested. “Suppose you join the others. The officers should be here any moment, now.”
As the door closed behind the others, Professor Forrester wheeled and stepped quickly into the museum. It was a small, square room entered by a single door of heavy, iron-bound oak, and lighted by a single small, heavily barred window. About its sides were ranged the tall glass-fronted specimen cases, all strongly fastened with Yale locks, while a small, compact safe and two tall, sheet-steel cabinets stood against the wall directly beneath the window. In the center, under the ceiling electrolier, was a table of polished mahogany on which lay a handkerchief covering two small objects. The Professor lifted the cloth, disclosing a small brass inkwell and stamp box.
“Milsted certainly intended giving the guilty man every chance,” he commented softly to himself. “No one coming in here could say whether the handkerchief had covered two or three things before, and the fact that the cloth was already resting on two other things would partially disguise the fact that the idol had been returned. Yes, he was pretty decent about it, poor chap.”
Replacing the square linen, he stared speculatively about the room. “Now, let’s see,” he murmured. “The Hanuman statue couldn’t have been much bigger than this inkwell or stamp box, smaller, perhaps. Anyone could have carried it easily in his pocket. H’m; very interesting.”
Strolling over to the safe, he bent forward and examined it, even testing its lock tentatively, first taking the precaution to cover the knob with his handkerchief, lest his fingerprints show on the polished metal. The lock was fastened, and he next turned his attention to the upright metal cabinets. They were nearly six feet high by eighteen inches wide and about two feet deep. One was filled with a miscellaneous assortment of papers, old letters and kindred junk, while the other was empty, even its shelves having been removed, leaving a space available for storage about as large as the interior of an upended mummy case.
Again the Professor stooped, examining the cabinet’s interior carefully. “Umpf,” he inquired of the empty room, “what’s this?” On the smoothly painted floor of the case were four crescent-shaped ridges of sand and fine gravel, paired off in two sets of two each, their concave sides facing, and about seven inches distant from each other. Taking an envelope from his pocket the Professor carefully scooped part of the sand into it, then closed the cabinet door and returned to the library.
Approaching the window, which had blown open as the lights went out, he examined its white-enameled sill closely, collected a few grains of sand from it, and bent down to observe the wall and baseboard immediately under it.
His search was rewarded, for, so faint as to be scarcely noticeable, but perceptible to one who knew what he looked for, was a tiny, dirty-yellow stain on the white baseboard, and two more, one about two feet below and ten to eleven inches to the left of the other, against the gray wall paper.
Mentally the Professor blessed his untidy habit of using his pockets for correspondence files as he brushed specimens of these stains into two more envelopes and scribbled identifying notations on each container.
“Now,” he informed himself as he knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire, “we’ll have a look around the outside of the house before the police begin to ask embarrassing questions.”
The wind was howling like a thousand banshees with ulcerated teeth, lashing the tall, somber cedars, which lined the Milsted driveway, till they bent almost double before its force, and hurling sheets of mingled snow and sleet against the house walls and window panes. The entire north wall of the Milsted mansion was encrusted with storm-castings as the Professor, muffled to the eyes in his motoring coat and with his fur cap pulled well over his ears, forced his way through the tempest to the spot beneath the library window.
“No chance of finding anything here,” he admitted reluctantly as he threw the beam of his electric torch against the ice-covered clapboards. “Any traces are as dead as the dodo. You couldn’t track an elephant through this storm. I might as well get back to—ah?” He broke his soliloquy short with a sharp, interrogative exclamation as his foot came in contact with some tiny object imbedded in the half-frozen snow.
Dropping to his knees, he played his electric light over the glacial mass at his feet, dug his fingers through the sleet-crust and exhumed a tiny, glistening object about an inch and a half in length and surprisingly heavy for its size. No need to speculate on the nature of his discovery. The little golden statue, representing a squatting monkey, and exquisitely executed in gold, the face ornamented with rubies, told him at a glance what it was. Hanuman, the Monkey God, was found.
The flashlight’s ray disclosed something else. About the spot where the Professor had stumbled over the jewel somebody else had been clawing furiously, for the half-obliterated marks of frantic fingers were plainly visible in the snow. Only desperate haste, biting cold and unrelieved darkness had prevented the other from finding the statuette which the Professor had come upon accidentally.
“Hum,” Forrester remarked as he shut off his flashlight and rose, “this is interesting; mighty interesting. Would be worth while trying to find any tracks?”
Two minutes’ attempt convinced him it would not. Sheltered from the full fury of the storm by the house, the snow where the monkey’s statue had been lost retained the ridges made by the questing fingers which missed what the Professor found; but three feet distant the drifting flakes and lashing sleet obliterated Forrester’s own tracks almost as soon as he made them. To seek any person who had passed that way, even a few minutes before, was as bootless an undertaking as attempting to trace a ship across the Atlantic by her wake. “No go,” he admitted, after wrestling with the gale for ten yards or so; “better get in and thaw out.”
“Find anything?” demanded young Carpenter as the Professor relieved himself of cap and ulster and held his hands to the hall fire, flexing and stretching his fingers to restore circulation.
“Umpf,” responded the Professor, bending closer to the blaze and disdaining a glance at his questioner.
“Nut!” muttered Carpenter to the young woman beside him. “Darndest nut I ever saw, racing around in this storm looking for God-knows-what. Reckon the old fool expects to find out why Milsted shot himself?”
If the Professor heard Mr. Carpenter’s uncomplimentary remarks he gave no sign of resentment. Turning from the fire as soon as the younger man had withdrawn, he hurried to the library, and with only the corpse of his late host for company, fell to comparing the bits of earth he had salvaged from the steel cabinet, the window sill and the library walls and baseboard.
“Hello, Professor Forrester; what are you doing here?” queried a sharp-featured young man as he entered the library and put a portmanteau down on the table. “Lookin’ for traces of the Pyramid-builders?”
Forrester regarded the newcomer sharply through the lenses of his neat, rimless pince-nez. “I don’t believe I—” he began, but the other interrupted with a laugh.
“Of course, you don’t,” he agreed. “I didn’t expect you would. I’m Nesbit—Lambert Nesbit, B. S., in ’20, and M.D., in ’24. Never had any of your classes, but used to see you on the campus and on the platform at commencements.”
“Oh!” the Professor responded. “And you’re—”
“Yep, I’m the coroner. Practice wasn’t goin’ any too
