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Updated: June 25, 2025
My idea is that the man what carried that book into the shop is the man what scragged my poor old relative fact, mister! Levendale, he wouldn't tell us anything much this morning maybe he'll tell you more. Stand by Lauriston, mister! we'll pull him through." "You seem very well disposed towards him," remarked Purdie. "He's evidently taken your fancy."
"S'elp me! one of ourselves!" whispered Melky Rubinstein at Lauriston's elbow. "Twig him!" Lauriston was quick enough of comprehension and observation to know what Melky meant. Mr. Spencer Levendale was certainly a Jew. His dark hair and beard, his large dark eyes, the olive tint of his complexion, the lines of his nose and lips all betrayed his Semitic origin.
It was certainly odd that a man who was within five minutes' walk of his own house should send a telegram there, when he had nothing to do but walk down one street and turn the corner of another to give his message in person. "Sent off, do you see, sir, twenty minutes ago," observed the butler, pointing to some figures in the telegram form. "So Mr. Levendale must have been close by then!"
In the silence which followed upon Ayscough's obvious doubt about answering this direct question, Levendale let out a sharp, half-irritable exclamation: "In God's name!" he said, "who is this young man? What does he know about the diamond and the money?" Yada turned and faced his questioner and suddenly smiling, thrust his hand in his breast pocket and drew out a card-case.
"Something else?" asked Purdie. "What then?" "Eighty thousand pounds," answered Levendale. "Just that!" Purdie stood staring at him. Then he suddenly put a question. "Do you know who murdered that old man in Praed Street?" he demanded. "That's what I'm after." "No!" said Levendale, promptly. "I don't even know that he was murdered!"
Come this way, Mr. Purdie." Turning away from the hall, he led Purdie through the library in which Levendale had received Ayscough and his companions into a small room that opened out of it. Purdie, looking round him, found that he was standing in a laboratory, furnished with chemical apparatus of the latest descriptions.
"What's going to be done?" enquired the solicitor. "Why!" said Ayscough. "At present, there's little more to be done than what is being done! There's no end of publicity in the newspapers about both Levendale and Purvis. Every newspaper reporter in London's on the stretch for a thread of news of 'em!
"You think that?" responded Melky, brightening suspiciously. "Oh, Mrs. Goldmark, your words is like wine all my life I been wishing some beautiful woman would say them things to me! Now I feel like I was two foot taller, Mrs. Goldmark! But I don't want no medals not me. Mr. Levendale and Mr.
"Ah! you think that, do you?" said Melky. "But why should that news fetch him out?" "Don't know!" replied Ayscough, almost unconcernedly. "But I'm almost certain that it will. You see I think Levendale's looking for Chen Li. Now, if Levendale hears that Chen Li's lying dead in our mortuary what? See?" Melky murmured that Mr.
"I'll tell you," replied Elsie, readily. "Because, about four o'clock on the afternoon of the old man's death, I happened to be at the corner of Chapel Street. I saw Mr. Levendale get out of the 'bus. He did not see me. He crossed Edgware Road and walked rapidly down Praed Street. And he was carrying that book in his hand!" "You're sure it was that book?" asked Purdie.
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