"I am," I told him.
"Know any one at your consulate?" he demanded.
Thank heaven, I did! There is an under-secretary there named
Watson--I went to college with him. I mentioned him to Bray.
"Very good," said the inspector. "You are free to go. But you
must understand that you are an important witness in this case, and
if you attempt to leave London you will be locked up."
So I came back to my rooms, horribly entangled in a mystery that is
little to my liking. I have been sitting here in my study for some
time, going over it again and again. There have been many footsteps
on the stairs, many voices in the hall.
Waiting here for the dawn, I have come to be very sorry for the
cold handsome captain. After all, he was a man; his very tread on
the floor above, which it shall never hear again, told me that.
What does it all mean? Who was the man in the hall, the man who
had argued so loudly, who had struck so surely with that queer
Indian knife? Where is the knife now?
And, above all, what do the white asters signify? And the scarab
scarf-pin? And that absurd Homburg hat?
Lady of the Carlton, you wanted mystery. When I wrote that first
letter to you, little did I dream that I should soon have it to
give you in overwhelming measure.
And--believe me when I say it--through all this your face has
been constantly before me--your face as I saw it that bright
morning in the hotel breakfast room.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51