Obediently McLean glanced about the library. It was a large room, almost square in shape, two stories in height with an arched roof containing a stained glass skylight. It was paneled in Flemish oak; and oak bookcases, with sliding glass doors, filled most of the wall space, while a gallery, on a level with the second story, circled the library. Access to the gallery was gained from the library by a flight of circular steps near the huge brick chimney which stood at the farther end of the room. Bookcases, similar in type to those on the main floor of the library, were in the gallery, and McLean scarcely glanced upward; instead, his eyes roved over the worn furniture with its shabby upholstery, the faded rugs on the hardwood floor, until finally his gaze rested on the tea table. Given to observation of little things, he noticed the spotless condition of the tea cloth and the neat darns in one corner. Inspector Mitchell observed his silent contemplation of the tea table. "Evidently Miss Baird was enjoying a cup of tea," he remarked. "See, her cup is half full." "Have you analyzed its contents?" asked McLean. "Not yet." Mitchell moved impatiently. "Give us time, Doctor. It won't take long to locate the criminal. He is sure to have left a clue behind him among the tea things." "You will insist on murder!" McLean shrugged his shoulders. "I see only one cup of tea," pointing to the table. "A teapot--is it empty?" He stretched out his hand to pick it up, but Mitchell checked him with an imperative gesture. "Don't handle anything, Sir," he cautioned. "We are making tests for finger prints." "Quite right." McLean's hand dropped to his side. "Well, murder presupposes the presence of some one beside the victim. I see only one teacup, one plate with two sandwiches and a piece of cake, another plate with a half-eaten peach. Not a very bountiful repast. Now, while Miss Baird was poor, she was hospitable, inspector; had any one been here, her visitor would have been provided with a cup of tea at least." "Perhaps--but suppose she wasn't aware of the, er, visitor's presence?" asked Mitchell. McLean eyed him in silence for a second. "Have you found any indication of another's presence?" he questioned. "Any clues?" "Nothing worth mentioning now," responded Mitchell, evasively. "Can you give me the name of an intimate friend to whom Miss Baird may have gone?" "Why, certainly; there's--let me see--" McLean pulled himself up short. Who were Kitty Baird's intimate friends--her girl friends? He could enumerate dozens of men whose admiration for her was sincere and unconcealed, but when it came to the girls in their set--pshaw! women were cats! Kitty's popularity had not endeared her to her own sex.