“You would not find my kitchen like this ordinarily,” he remarked.  “I would not like to have Doctor Murray see it, for since last year, when monsieur had the bad stomach, I have been very careful.”

The chef seemed to be nervous.

“You prepared the mushrooms yourself?” asked Kennedy, suddenly.

“I directed my assistant,” came back the wary reply.

“But you know good mushrooms when you see them?”

“Certainly,” he replied, quickly.

“There was no one else in the kitchen while you prepared them?”

“Yes,” he answered, hurriedly; “Mr. Mansfield came in, and Miss Hargrave.  Oh, they are very particular!  And Doctor Murray, he has given me special orders ever since last year, when monsieur had the bad stomach,” he repeated.

“Was any one else here?”

“Yes—­I think so.  You see, I am so excited—­a big dinner—­such epicures—­everything must be just so—­I cannot say.”

There seemed to be little satisfaction in quizzing the chef, and Kennedy turned again into the dining-room, making his way back to the library, where Miss Grey was waiting anxiously for us.

“What do you think?” she asked, eagerly.

“I don’t know what to think,” replied Kennedy.  “No one else has felt any ill effects from the supper, I suppose?”

“No,” she replied; “at least, I’m sure I would have heard by this time if they had.”

“Do you recall anything peculiar about the mushrooms?” shot out Kennedy.

“We talked about them some time, I remember,” she said, slowly.  “Growing mushrooms is one of Miss Hargrave’s hobbies out at her place on Long Island.”

“Yes,” persisted Kennedy; “but I mean anything peculiar about the preparation of them.”

“Why, yes,” she said, suddenly; “I believe that Miss Hargrave was to have superintended them herself.  We all went out into the kitchen.  But it was too late.  They had been prepared already.”

“You were all in the kitchen?”

“Yes; I remember.  It was before the supper and just after we came in from the theater-party which Mr. Mansfield gave.  You know Mr. Mansfield is always doing unconventional things like that.  If he took a notion, he would go into the kitchen of the Ritz.”

“That is what I was trying to get out of the chef—­Francois,” remarked Kennedy.  “He didn’t seem to have a very clear idea of what happened.  I think I’ll see him again—­right away.”

We found the chef busily at work, now, cleaning up.  As Kennedy asked him a few inconsequential questions, his eye caught a row of books on a shelf.  It was a most complete library of the culinary arts.  Craig selected one and turned the pages over rapidly.  Then he came back to the frontispiece, which showed a model dinner-table set for a number of guests.  He placed the picture before Francois, then withdrew it in, I should say, about ten seconds.  It was a strange and incomprehensible action, but I was more surprised when Kennedy added: