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Updated: May 17, 2025
"That letter will it throw any light on Mr. Whitmore's death?" asked Britz eagerly. "Not the slightest," was her disappointing reply. "It has absolutely nothing to do with it." "Then you won't mind identifying it if I find it in my search of the premises?" "Not in the least that is, on one condition," said she. "And that condition what is it?"
Although burning with anxiety she made no further inquiries of the servant. Instead, she rang up Whitmore's office. "No ma'am, he hasn't been here this morning," the office boy said. "Then give me Mr. Beard, his secretary." "He hasn't been here, either." She hung up the receiver and turned a bewildered countenance to her brother.
Mr. Whitmore's death has not changed matters. Follow Mr. Beard's instructions and I shall carry out faithfully my promise to you. "Yours in haste, GEORGE." Britz stowed the letter in his pocket, then summoned Muldoon. "Now tell what happened," he said. It required some effort on the part of the policeman to gather his thoughts.
Moreover, we have ascertained that he was entirely devoted to Whitmore's interests. There was a great personal tie between the two men. The fact that he arranged the plot for Whitmore's escape and the substitution of prisoners, is but additional proof of his loyalty to his employer. We haven't a scintilla of evidence to connect him with his employer's murder."
Collins, divining with the sure instinct of a woman, the obvious conclusion which the detective had drawn from the letter, ventured another attempt to gain possession of it. "Now that you are convinced that it has no bearing on Mr. Whitmore's death, may I have it?" she asked. "Why are you so anxious to obtain it?" retorted Britz.
I should have detected it the moment I saw the wound." Britz now produced the enlarged photograph of the wound as well as the needle that he had found on the floor of Whitmore's office. "It is all very simple so simple that I eliminated the theory that Whitmore was killed in his office at the very outset of the investigation.
Through the knowledge gleaned that morning in the Tombs, he would render Lester Ward pliant to his will; would extract from his unsuspecting lips the truth concerning Whitmore's death. In front of a huge office building the detective halted, permitting his eyes to linger a moment on a brass door-plate that bore the simple device Ward & Co.
But the conclusion is inevitable that your visit at such a late hour has something to do with Mr. Whitmore's death, so I must ask you to explain your presence." She leaned back in her chair, a look of meek resignation in her face. "I came to obtain a letter addressed to Mr. Whitmore," she said frankly. "A letter which you wrote?" "No." "By whom was it written?" "My brother Mr. Ward."
Swift things had come upon them, things that staggered the tight-lipped community, even though it was used to speed and tragedy. For one thing, Ellen, pale, sweet flower, had hanged herself in the gaudy apartment of Lola behind the Golden Cloud where the dance-hall woman had peremptorily brought her when they took her off Cleve Whitmore's shoulder.
When artfully worked, this deceit may always be relied upon to create undeserved sympathy. Were there nothing else to absolve Mrs. Collins from the suspicion that she was responsible for Whitmore's death, the absence of motive would have proclaimed her innocence. She loved him. She was ready to discard her husband for him. She and her brother were looking to him to save them from financial ruin.
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