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Updated: September 4, 2025
I've drifted through life fooling with real estate and writing now and then a little, a very little, poor fiction. Neither occupation would support me in Furmville; and I think I could make good as a sort of consulting detective and criminologist. There's money in it, isn't there?" "Yes; good money," Braceway replied without much enthusiasm.
"I'm leaving you," the lame man declared, "to run to your heart's content around the clever circles you've outlined, and to beat off the newspaper reporters." "It's not for long," Braceway returned seriously. "I hope to be in Furmville next week with an armful of new facts. I'll see you then." He went to the desk and got his mail.
Braceway took a hand again in the examination, but their combined efforts got nothing further from the tired prisoner. They tried to shake him with the accusation that he had entered the bungalow Monday night; they told him also they might take him back to Furmville at once, charged with the murder. "It wouldn't make any difference to me," he said, making a weak attempt to laugh.
Withers involved by the probable motive of jealousy and rage, and by his secret trip to Furmville. Maria Fulton well, he would see. "Just now," he concluded in his own mind, "it looks worse for the negro than anybody else. There's one thing certain: the man against whom the most evidence rests by the time they have the inquest tomorrow will be the one held for the action of the grand jury.
Braceway, he deduced from the article, was having his troubles making the Morley theory hang together. And why should he hurry back to Furmville? There was nothing new here. He shrugged his shoulders and unwrapped the bundle of out-of-town papers.
The banker put his hand into his breast pocket and drew forth a bulky envelope, from which he produced a long, rectangular piece of paper. "I knew you would prefer to learn of this at first hand from the bank; indeed, from me, its president. Yesterday, Mr. Withers, a promissory note, a sixty-day note, for a thousand dollars fell due in the Furmville National Bank. You might like to see it.
Eidstein, he felt sure, must be an interesting character. Reaching Furmville early Sunday morning, Bristow went straight to his bungalow, where Mattie had breakfast waiting for him. "You is sholy some big man now, Mistuh Bristow!" she informed him. "Sence you been gawn, folks done made it a habit to drive by hyuh jes' foh de chanct uv seem' you."
The detective wrote on a slip of paper: S. S. Braceway, Willard Hotel. He handed it to Abrahamson. "Wire me that address, collect," he directed. Abrahamson promised, smiling. He was pleased with the idea of helping to solve the problem which convulsed Furmville. "Oh," added Braceway, "another thing.
He had not yet found out the real meaning of the Braceway message; and he did not propose to leave Furmville until he was assured that nothing could be done to blur the brightness of his work on the Withers case. He realized, and at the same time resented, the tribute he paid Braceway through his hesitancy.
"It's nothing serious; just a pretty bad hemorrhage," he said, finding it necessary to pause between words. "The boneheaded Mowbray my physician in Furmville, you know was right for once. He said this might happen." "I'm going out and let you sleep," Braceway insisted, displaying the average man's feeling of absolute helplessness in a sickroom. "No, not yet.
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