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Updated: June 9, 2025
She wondered why she had lost faith in Voles for an instant. "I'll send a doctor," went on Steingall composedly. "Your friend there needs one, I guess." "I'd sooner have a six-shooter," roared Mick the Wolf. "Doctors are even more deadly sometimes." So the detective took his defeat cheerfully, and that is the worst thing a man can do in his opponent's interests.
They had never heard of me. I dropped from the skies, or the nearest thing to it, since I was on the Atlantic at this hour yesterday." McCulloch was aware that the Frenchman had been profoundly disturbed by Curtis's statements, and kept the ball rolling. That name, de Courtois, seemed to supply the clew to the man's agitation, so he harped on it. "Has Mr. Steingall seen de Courtois?" he asked.
There are only two known specimens of the coin in existence, and the second happens to be here in my waistcoat pocket." "Of course," said Quinny with a shrug of his shoulders, "the story is well invented, but the turn to it is very nice very nice indeed." "I did know the story," said Steingall, to be disagreeable; "the ending, though, is too obvious to be invented.
"How did you come to engage in this this freak marriage, then?" Curtis measured Steingall with a contemplative eye. "You are called on to assimilate a novel idea, and, in consequence, are choosing your words badly," he said. "It was not a freak marriage.
Within the hour Carshaw, with frowning face and dreams of wreaking physical vengeance on the burly frame of Voles, was speeding across New York with Steingall in his recovered car. He simply hungered for a personal combat with the man who had inflicted such sufferings on his beloved Winifred.
Steingall, wishing to put the girl wholly at ease, affected to consult some notes on his desk, but Winifred was too wrought up to keep silent. "The gentleman who brought me here told me that I would be required to give evidence concerning the murder of Mr. Ronald Tower," she said. "Believe me, sir, that unfortunate gentleman's name was unknown to me before I read it in this morning's paper.
"Inspiration," said Quinny, eliminating Steingall from his preserves with the gesture of brushing away a fly "inspiration is only a form of hypnosis, under the spell of which a man is capable of rising outside of and beyond himself, as a horse, under extraordinary stress, exerts a muscular force far beyond his accredited strength.
"Who was killed, anyhow, Steingall?" demanded the journalist who had answered the detective. "We don't know, yet." "Does Curtis know?" "He said he didn't, but I'll tell you something I shan't be happy till I've had another chat with him." "Can anyone say who 'John D. Curtis, of Pekin, really is?" went on the reporter. "That is the man we are looking for.
"The house stands way back, an' is hidden by trees." "I mean having a look at it, wall or no wall," insisted Carshaw. "But the gate is spiked and the wall covered with broken glass," said the girl. "Such obstacles can be surmounted by ladders and folded tarpaulins, or even thick overcoats," observed Steingall. "I'm a plumber," said the East Orange man.
Passing through the general office, Steingall entered his own sanctum. A small, slightly built man was bent over a table and scrutinizing a Rogues' Gallery of photographs in a large album.
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