To her tortured soul this police investigation
seemed to be the acme of disgrace. It all pointed to the arrest
of her boy---to a long term in some jail or reformatory, most
likely.
"Madame," asked the plain clothes man, stepping to the door, "will
you give your full consent to my searching your son's room---in
the presence of yourself and of Dr. Thornton, of course? I am
obliged to ask your permission, for, without a search warrant
I have no other legal right than that which you may give me."
"Of course you may search Richard's room," replied his mother,
quickly. "But you'll be wasting your time, for you'll find nothing
incriminating in my boy's room."
"Of course not, of course not," replied Hemingway, soothingly.
"That is what we most want---_not_ to find anything there. Will
you lead the way, please? Prescott, you may come and see the
search also."
So the four filed into the little room that served Dick as sleeping
apartment, study-room, den, library and all. Hemingway moved
quickly about, exploring the pockets of Dick's other clothing
hanging there. He delved into, under and behind all of the few
books there. This plain clothes man moved from place to place
with a speed and certainty that spoke of his long years of practice
in this sort of work.
"There's nothing left but the trunk, now," declared the policeman,
bending over and trying the lock. "The key to this, Prescott!"
Dick produced the key. Hemingway fitted it in the lock, throwing
up the lid.
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