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Updated: September 21, 2025
"It seemed to open more easily just now than it did last night. There seemed to be a sort of hitch before when it was about half-way open." "Perhaps the crate was in the way?" suggested Gatton. "Except for the absence of the crate do you notice anything different, anything missing, or anything there now that was not there before?" Bolton shook his head.
The reputation of the late baronet had been one which I personally did not envy him, but whatever his faults, and I knew they had been many, he had evidently possessed the redeeming virtue of being a good employer. "A couple of hours' sleep would make a new man of you," said Gatton kindly. "I understand your feelings, but no amount of sorrow can mend matters, unfortunately.
That he expected the other to be Miss Merlin is at least suggested by the presence of her photograph in the room; for you will have noticed that it is the only photograph there." "Nevertheless," I said firmly, "I am positive that no one would be more surprised than herself to learn of its presence." "And as I have already said," replied Gatton, "I am rapidly coming round to your way of thinking.
I made no reply, for I had not yet recovered from the shock of that discovery in the deserted supper room. It was so wholly unexpected and yet it so cruelly confirmed the Inspector's undisguised suspicions that it seemed to me to have created a sort of impalpable barrier between us. Of this Gatton was evidently conscious.
Blythe departed, and Gatton and I entered the hall. The man, Morris, closed the door, and led us into a small library. Beside the telephone stood a tray bearing decanter and glasses, and there was evidence that Morris had partaken of a hurried breakfast consisting only of biscuits and whisky and soda. "I haven't been to bed all night, gentlemen," he began the moment that we entered the room.
He paused a moment, then: "Was Sir Marcus interested in some one engaged at the New Avenue Theater?" he asked. Morris glanced from face to face in a pathetic, troubled fashion. He rubbed the stubble on his chin again and hesitated. Finally: "I believe," he replied, "that there was a lady there who " He paused, swallowing, and: "Yes," Gatton prompted, "who ?"
Gatton advanced towards it and drew aside the curtain which was draped in the opening. It was a recess about four feet wide by three deep and it contained nothing in the nature of furniture or ornament. "Does anything strike you as curious about this arrangement?" said my companion. I looked for a long time, but failed to detect anything of a notable nature.
The old hesitancy claimed Morris again, but at last: "Of course," he said, with visible embarrassment, "it was a woman." I felt my heart leaping wildly, but I managed to preserve an outward show of composure. "What woman?" demanded Gatton. "I don't know, sir." "Do you mean it?"
Every possible means had been taken to intercept him, and whilst Gatton, inspired by I know not what hopes, had hastened to the burning Bell House, I had set out in the police car in pursuit of Dr. Damar Greefe accompanied by Detective-Sergeant Blythe upon whom, apparently, the onus of the fiasco rested.
"I really don't doubt it," replied Gatton, who, having filled his pipe, now lighted it. "I believe he was the first victim." "The first victim?" "Mr. Addison, I agree with the late Sir Burnham's solicitor, that the spider at the heart of this web is Dr. Damar Greefe.
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