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Updated: May 18, 2025
"A man was murdered," said the P.V. man lightly, as though that were the least important feature of the story, "but before he pegged out he made a will or an assignment of his property to his son, in the course of which he said that none of his stocks he was a corn factor were to be sold under one thousand Kronen a bushel. That's about £30." "Corn at £30 a bushel?" said McNorton.
But McNorton smiled indulgently. "I hope you're right," he said. "I hope the whole thing is a mare's nest and for once in my life I trust that the police clues are as wrong as hell. But, anyway, van Heerden is cabling mighty freely and I want Beale!" But Beale was unreachable. A visit to his apartment produced no results.
"I shan't be able to come with you," said McNorton, "I have a meeting with the commissioner at five." "Before you go," remarked Beale, "you might put your signature to this declaration of my bona fides." He laid on the table a blue foolscap blank. "What's this?" asked the surprised McNorton, "an application for a special licence are you going to be married?"
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