The Three Strings by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

CORONER PENFIELD paused in his microscopic examination of the polished surface of Burnham's desk and laying down his instrument, listened attentively. He could have sworn he had heard a faint rustle of skirts. Moving with noiseless speed over to the doorway he peered into the hall, himself screened from view by the portières, but the hall was empty. After remaining behind the portières for fully five minutes, he again crossed the library and sat down before the desk and renewed his occupation of ransacking the drawers. With the aid of a skeleton key he unlocked first one and then another, but only neat rows of filed bills and canceled checks rewarded his search and he sat back finally, gnawing his underlip. His eyes strayed about the room and he frowned meditatively at the clock as it chimed the hour; ten o'clock was early for an amateur performance to be over, but

Penfield closed and locked each drawer and replaced every ornament on the desk where it had originally stood, its place clearly indicated by the accumulation of dust which, by his order, the servants had been forbidden to remove. Rising, he took a thorough survey of the library. Mrs. Burnham had evidently seen that his instructions about keeping the room intact had been carried out; every piece of furniture was where he recalled seeing it after the discovery of the dead man sitting in the chair by the fireplace five or was it six -- Penfield stopped to count -- had five days elapsed since then? No arrests, no identification of the dead man in that time! Memory of a stinging editorial in a local newspaper on the subject of police inefficiency in handling the case made him wince. The editorial had hardened his resolve to make another examination of the Burnham residence, and upon hearing of the family's contemplated absence at the theater that night he had decided to take the opportunity to once again go over the premises.