Why, no, sir--you didn't ask that. You asked to see all who are here
now. There is only one who has left, the cook, Bridget Fallon. She left
a couple of days ago--said she was going back to New York to get another
job. Glad enough I was to get rid of her, too, for she was drunk most of
the time after the typhoid appeared."

"Well, Walter, I guess we shall have to go back to New York again,
then," exclaimed Kennedy. "Oh, I beg pardon, Mrs. Rawson, for
interrupting. Thank you ever so much. Where did Bridget come from?"

"She came well recommended, sir. Here is the letter in my writing-desk.
She had been employed by the Caswell-Joneses at Shelter Island before
she came here."

"I may keep this letter" asked Craig, scanning it quickly.

"Yes."

"By the way, where were the bottles of spring water kept"

"In the kitchen."

"Did Bridget take charge of them?"

"Yes."

"Did Mr. Bisbee have any guests during the last week that he was here?"

"Only Mr. Denny one night."

"H'm!" exclaimed Craig. "Well, it will not be so hard for us to unravel
this matter, after all, when we get back to the city. We must make that
noon train, Walter. There is nothing more for us to do here."

Emerging from the "Tube" at Ninth Street, Craig hustled me into a
taxicab, and in almost no time we were at police headquarters.

Fortunately, Inspector Barney O'Connor was in and in an amiable mood,
too, for Kennedy had been careful that the Central Office received a
large share of credit for the Kerr Parker case. Craig sketched hastily
the details of this new case. O'Connor's face was a study. His honest
blue Irish eyes fairly bulged in wonder, and when Craig concluded with
a request for help I think O'Connor would have given him anything in the
office, just to figure in the case.

"First, I want one of your men to go to the surrogate's office and
get the original of the will. I shall return it within a couple of
hours--all I want to do is to make a photographic copy. Then another
man must find this lawyer, James Denny, and in some way get his
finger-prints--you must arrange that yourself. And send another fellow
up to the employment offices on Fourth Avenue and have him locate this
cook, Bridget Fallon. I want her finger-prints, too. Perhaps she had
better be detained, for I don't want her to get away. Oh, and say,
O'Connor, do you want to finish this case up like the crack of a whip
to-night?"

"I'm game, sir. What of it?"

"Let me see.