“Yes,” he answered somewhat wearily, “my private kitchen which I have had fitted up.  You know, I am on a diet, have been ever since I offered the one hundred thousand dollars for the sure restoration of youth.  I shall have you taken out there presently.”

He lapsed again into a half dreamy state, his head bowed on one hand resting on the arm of his chair.  The morning’s mail still lay on the table, some letters open, as they had been when the discovery had been announced.  Mrs. Pitts was apparently much excited and unnerved by the gruesome discovery in the house,

“You have no idea who the murderer might be?” asked Kennedy, addressing Pitts, but glancing keenly at his wife.

“No,” replied Pitts, “if I had I should have called the regular police.  I wanted you to take it up before they spoiled any of the clues.  In the first place we do not think it could have been done by any of the other servants.  At least, Minna says that there was no quarrel.”

“How could any one have got in from the outside?” asked Craig.

“There is a back way, a servants’ entrance, but it is usually locked.  Of course some one might have obtained a key to it.”

Mrs. Pitts had remained silent throughout the dialogue.  I could not help thinking that she suspected something, perhaps was concealing something.  Yet each of them seemed equally anxious to have the marauder apprehended, whoever he might be.

“My dear,” he said to her at length, “will you call some one and have them taken to the kitchen?”

IX

THE ELIXIR OF LIFE

As Minna Pitts led us through the large mansion preparatory to turning us over to a servant she explained hastily that Mr. Pitts had long been ill and was now taking a new treatment under Dr. Thompson Lord.  No one having answered her bell in the present state of excitement of the house, she stopped short at the pivoted door of the kitchen, with a little shudder at the tragedy, and stood only long enough to relate to us the story as she had heard it from the valet, Edward.

Mr. Pitts, it seemed, had wanted an early breakfast and had sent Edward to order it.  The valet had found the kitchen a veritable slaughter-house, with, the negro chef, Sam, lying dead on the floor.  Sam had been dead, apparently, since the night before.

As she hurried away, Kennedy pushed open the door.  It was a marvellous place, that antiseptic or rather aseptic kitchen, with its white tiling and enamel, its huge ice-box, and cooking-utensils for every purpose, all of the most expensive and modern make.

There were marks everywhere of a struggle, and by the side of the chef, whose body now lay in the next room awaiting the coroner, lay a long carving-knife with which he had evidently defended himself.  On its blade and haft were huge coagulated spots of blood.  The body of Sam bore marks of his having been clutched violently by the throat, and in his head was a single, deep wound that penetrated the skull in a most peculiar manner.  It did not seem possible that a blow from a knife could have done it.  It was a most unusual wound and not at all the sort that could have been made by a bullet.