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 labors. 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, 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
