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Updated: June 27, 2025
"No; it isn't," she agreed, with perfect indifference. "And it's spent." When he had telephoned to Sloanehurst and the sheriff's office, he found her with her hat on, ready to accompany him. As they stepped out of the Walman, she saw the automobile waiting for them. She stopped, a new rage darting from her eyes. He thought she would go back.
If accidents happen and you're seen entering the Walman, what more natural than that you want to ask this woman the meaning of her vague threats against against Sloanehurst? But of money, your real object, not a word! Nobody's to have a hint of it." "Oh, yes; I see the necessity of that." But she was distressed. "Suppose she refuses?"
Another paragraph that caught Hastings' attention, as he read between mouthfuls of his breakfast, was this: "Mrs. Brace, discussing the tragedy with a reporter last night, showed a surprising knowledge of all its incidents. Although she had not left her apartment in the Walman all day, she had been questioned by both Sheriff Crown and Mr.
I'll go over this, look for the steel particles, right away." "Anything else, sir special?" The assistant was already half-way to the door. He knew that a floor an inch deep in chips from his employer's whittling indicated laborious mental gropings by the old man. It was no time for superfluous words. "After dinner," Hastings instructed, "relieve Gore at the Walman. Thanks."
She fled into the house, away from her thoughts. It was nine o'clock the following evening when Lucille Sloane, sure that she had entered the Walman unobserved, rang the bell of Mrs. Brace's apartment. Her body felt remarkably light and facile, as if she moved in a tenuous, half-real atmosphere. There were moments when she had the sensation of floating.
Brace had been able to persuade her father that he had heard nothing more than some outside noise. She was certain that he had not seen her. She crossed the dim, narrow lobby of the Walman so quickly, and so quietly, that the girl at the telephone board did not look in her direction. Once in the street, she was seized by desire to confide to Hastings the story of her experience.
"I did come out on his car, the car that gets to the Sloanehurst stop at ten-thirty, and I did leave the car at the Ridgecrest stop, a quarter of a mile from here. I was following Mil Miss Brace. I saw her leave her apartment house, the Walman. I followed her to the transfer station at the bridge, and I saw her take the car there. I followed on the next car.
It was eight o'clock when Miss Davis, telephone operator in the cheap apartment house on Fourteenth street known as The Walman, took the old man's card and read the inscription, over the wire: "'Mr. Jefferson Hastings." After a brief pause, she told him: "She wants to know if you are a detective." "Tell her I am." "You may go up," the girl reported.
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