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Updated: May 11, 2025
"Let me help you," he whispered. "Only be my friend and I will forgive everything." She gave him a long look of her deep, velvety eyes, she flashed him a little smile, and was gone. Hatherly Bell turned up at Downend Terrace gay and debonair as if he had not a single trouble in the world. His evening dress was of the smartest and he had a rose in his buttonhole.
The lad engaged by Van Sneck to carry the letter from the Continental to 15, Downend Terrace, must have been intercepted by Henson or somebody in Henson's pay and given the forged reply, a reply that actually brought Van Sneck to Steel's house on the night of the great adventure. Henson had been warned by the somewhat intoxicated Van Sneck what he was going to do, and he had prepared accordingly.
Then the huddled mass resolved itself into the figure of a man with a white face smeared with blood. Dead! Oh, yes, dead enough. Steel flew to the telephone and rang furiously. "Give me 52, Police Station," he cried. "Are you there? Send somebody at once up here 15, Downend Terrace. There has been murder done here. For Heaven's sake come quickly."
"When we have Van Sneck all right again, and ready to swear to the author of the mischief, you will have to be satisfied." "That would satisfy me, sir. And I'm glad that cigar-case mystery is settled. You'll let me know how the operation goes on?" Steel promised to do so, and the two returned to Downend Terrace together. They found Heritage a little excited and disturbed.
It was on thick paper; the stamped address given was "15, Downend Terrace." There was no heading, merely the words "Certainly, with pleasure, I shall be home; in fact, I am home every night till 12.30, and you may call any time up till then. If you knock quietly on the door I shall hear you. "What do you make of it?" Cross asked.
A little annoyed with himself he took up the evening Argus. There was half a column devoted to the strange case at Downend Terrace, and just over it a late advertisement to the effect that a gun-metal cigar-case had been found and was in the hands of the police awaiting an owner. David slipped from the house and caught a 'bus in St. George's Road.
He proceeded to a telegraph office the first thing the following morning and wired Littimer to the effect that he must see him on important business. He had an hour or two at his disposal, so he took a cab as far as Downend Terrace. He found Steel slug-hunting in the conservatory, the atmosphere of which was blue with cigarette smoke. "So you are not working this morning?" he asked.
"Look at the address in green at the top: '15, Downend Terrace. Five sheets of my own best notepaper, printed especially for myself, in this basket! Originally this was a block of six sheets, but the one has been written upon and the others crushed up like this. Beyond doubt the paper was stolen from my study. And what's this?" He held up the thick paper to the light.
He turned mechanically on to the Palace Pier, at the head of which an Eastbourne steamer was blaring and panting. The trip appealed to David in his present frame of mind. Like most of his class, he was given to acting on the spur of the moment.... It was getting dark as David let himself into Downend Terrace with his latchkey. How good it was to be back again!
She crossed over to the post-office and dispatched a long telegram thus: "To David Steel, 15, Downend Terrace, Brighton. "Go to Walen's and ascertain full description of the tentative customer who suggested the firm should procure gun-metal cigar-case for him to look at. Ask if he was a tall man with a thin beard and a face slightly pock-marked. Then telephone result to me here.
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