"Have you always kept the key in this jewel-case, Mrs. Greene?" he asked, as he closed the drawer.
"For twelve years," she whined. "And now, after all that time, it is to be taken from me by force—and by the police, the very people who should be protecting an old, helpless paralytic like me. It's infamy! But what can I expect? Every one takes delight in torturing me."
Markham, his object gained, became contrite, and endeavored to pacify her by explaining the seriousness of the situation. But in this he failed; and a few moments later he joined us in the hall.
"I don't like this sort of thing, Vance," he said.
"You did remarkably well, however. If I hadn't been with you since lunch I'd have believed you really had a search-warrant. You are a veritable Machiavelli. Te saluto!"
"Get on with your business, now that you have the key," ordered Markham irritably. And we descended to the main hall.
Vance looked about him cautiously to make sure we were not observed, and led the way to the library.
"The lock works rather easily, considering its twelve years of desuetude," he remarked, as he turned the key and gently pushed open the massive oak door. "And the hinges don't even creak. Astonishin'."
Blackness confronted us, and Vance struck a match.
"Please don't touch anything," he admonished, and, holding the match high before him, he crossed to the heavy velour draperies of the east window.
