It was the longest half-hour that I ever put in, waiting for Blake to arrive.  When he did come, it was quite evident that my surmise had been correct.

Blake was one of those young old men who are increasingly common in business today.  There was an air of dignity and keenness about his manner that showed clearly how important he regarded the case.  So anxious was he to get down to business that he barely introduced himself and his companion, Special Officer Maloney, a typical private detective.

“Of course you haven’t heard anything except what I have told you over the wire,” he began, going right to the point.  “We were notified of it only this noon ourselves, and we haven’t given it out to the papers yet, though the local police in Jersey are now on the scene.  The New York police must be notified tonight, so that whatever we do must be done before they muss things up.  We’ve got a clue that we want to follow up secretly.  These are the facts.”

In the terse, straightforward language of the up-to-date man of efficiency, he sketched the situation for us.

“The Branford estate, you know, consists of several acres on the mountain back of Montclair, overlooking the valley, and surrounded by even larger estates.  Branford, I understand, is in the West with a party of capitalists, inspecting a reported find of potash salts.  Mrs. Branford closed up the house a few days ago and left for a short stay at Palm Beach.  Of course they ought to have put their valuables in a safe deposit vault.  But they didn’t.  They relied on a safe that was really one of the best in the market—­a splendid safe, I may say.  Well, it seems that while the master and mistress were both away the servants decided on having a good time in New York.  They locked up the house securely—­there’s no doubt of that—­and just went.  That is, they all went except Mrs. Branford’s maid, who refused to go for some reason or other.  We’ve got all the servants, but there’s not a clue to be had from any of them.  They just went off on a bust, that’s clear.  They admit it.

“Now, when they got back early this morning they found the maid in bed—­dead.  There was still a strong odor of chloroform about the room.  The bed was disarranged as if there had been a struggle.  A towel had been wrapped up in a sort of cone, saturated with chloroform, and forcibly held over the girl’s nose.  The next thing they discovered was the safe—­blown open in a most peculiar manner.  I won’t dwell on that.  We’re going to take you out there and show it to you after I’ve told you the whole story.

“Here’s the real point.  It looks all right, so far.  The local police say that the thief or thieves, whoever they were, apparently gained access by breaking a back window.  That’s mistake number one.  Tell Mr. Kennedy about the window, Maloney.”

“It’s just simply this,” responded the detective.  “When I came to look at the broken window I found that the glass had fallen outside in such a way as it could not have fallen if the window had been broken from the outside.  The thing was a blind.  Whoever did it got into the house in some other way and then broke the glass later to give a false clue.”