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"Not even a blood spot has been disturbed in the kitchen. Nothing
has been altered since the discovery of the murdered chef, except
that his body has been moved into the next room."
Emery Pitts, one of the "thousand millionaires of steel,"
overwrought as he was by a murder in his own household, sank back
in his easy-chair, exhausted.
Pitts was not an old man; indeed, in years he was in the prime of
life. Yet by his looks he might almost have been double his age,
the more so in contrast with Minna Pitts, his young and very
pretty wife, who stood near him in the quaint breakfast-room and
solicitously moved a pillow back of his head.
Kennedy and I looked on in amazement. We knew that he had recently
retired from active business, giving as a reason his failing
health. But neither of us had thought, when the hasty summons came
early that morning to visit him immediately at his house, that his
condition was as serious as it now appeared.
"In the kitchen?" repeated Kennedy, evidently not prepared for any
trouble in that part of the house.


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