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Updated: May 18, 2025
"But " "Isidor, this is the last word. I was at the funeral on Saturday, and met your wife's mother and sister. They do love you, don't they?" Ingerman died game. "If I have your assurance that Mr. Grant is really innocent of Adelaide's death, that is sufficient," he said slowly. "Well, if it pleases you to put it that way, I'm agreeable. Which is your road? Back to the hotel?
Tomlin went downstairs scratching his head. "Least said soonest mended," he communed, "but we may all be murdered in our beds if them's the sort of 'tecs we 'ave to look arter us." However, he cheered up towards night. Ingerman, a lawyer, and some pressmen, arriving for the inquest, filled every available room, and the kitchen was redolent of good fare.
"This is a purely formal inquiry, to permit of a death certificate being issued. You will oblige me, therefore, by answering my questions without introducing any extraneous subject." Ingerman adhered to these instructions. Having already shot a carefully-prepared bolt, he meant avoiding any further conflict with the authorities. His evidence was brief and to the point. The deceased was his wife.
His own portrait was not flattering. The sun had etched his Mephistophelian features rather sharply, whereas Grant looked a very fine fellow. Ingerman would have been more than surprised were he privileged to overhear a conversation which began and ended before he reached his flat in North Kensington.
Perhaps this was he. Mr. Tomlin knew the stranger's name, as he had taken a room, but that was the extent of the available information. "A fine evenin', sir," said Tomlin, drawing a cork noisily. "Looks as though we were in for a spell o' settled weather." "Yes," agreed Ingerman, summing up the conclave at a glance.
Now, put up or shut up!" Furneaux peeped in, through a door, always open, which led to the stairs. "Can I have my account, Mr. Tomlin?" he said. "I'm going to town by the next train." "You don't mean to say, Mr. Furneaux, that you are abandoning the case so soon?" broke in Ingerman. "Did I say that?" inquired the detective meekly. "No. One can't help drawing inferences occasionally."
The name was not engraved in copper-plate, but printed in heavy type. Somehow, it looked ominous. His first impression was to bid Minnie send the man away. He distrusted any first impression. It was the excuse of mediocrity, a sign of weakness. Moreover, why shouldn't he meet Isidor G. Ingerman? "Show him in," he said, almost gruffly, thus silencing shy intuition, as it were.
Moreover, he was acquainted with the chief characters by sight, as it were. And, finally, he and Furneaux had arranged a plan of campaign. Furneaux refreshed a jaded intellect by an evening at the opera. Next morning, at eleven o'clock, he was inquiring for Mr. Ingerman at an office in a certain alley off Cornhill.
After dinner the financier was surprised when Furneaux approached, and tapped him professionally on the shoulder. "A word with you outside," he said. Ingerman was irritated perhaps slightly alarmed. "Can't we talk here?" he said, in that singularly melodious voice of his. "Better not, but I shan't detain you more than five minutes." "Anything my legal adviser might wish to hear?" "Not from me.
While he was yet at the counter, Ingerman crossed the road and entered the chemist's shop. "Let me see," said the detective musingly, "by committing a slight trespass on your left-hand neighbor's garden, can I reach the yard of the inn?" "What the eye doesn't see the heart doesn't grieve over," smiled Doris. "Mrs. Jefferson went to Knoleworth early to-day, and took her maid.
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