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Now one of the men, in answer to a careful question or two, mentioned a curious fact. In the floor of the coffin, close to the foot of it, there was a wart in the wood. This morning you saw me slit the lining and remove some of the padding. There was no wart in the floor of the coffin, Wigan." "You mean the coffins were changed?" said Zena. "I do.
You are usually called Murray Wigan, I believe, and you are engaged to Miss Quarles Miss Zena Quarles, the granddaughter of a rather stupid professor." "What has this to do with you?" "I said it was a delicate matter," he went on. "My client has reason to believe that you are shall I say enamored of a lady staying in this hotel?
On the contrary, Pupkin himself felt that it was absolutely hopeless from the start. There were, it might be admitted, certain things that seemed to indicate progress. In the course of the months of June and July and August, he had taken Zena out in his canoe thirty-one times.
"From the first," he answered; "but I was too interested in the mother to work out the theory." How exactly in accordance with the truth this answer was I will not venture to say. That he was interested in the woman was obvious, and continued to be obvious while she remained in London. Zena and I were rather relieved when her professional engagements took her to Berlin.
Zena in a dress I had not seen before, which suited her to perfection. She was much more interesting to me than Forbes's bust of Madame Vatrotski. Quarles was right in his prophecy; the gallery was full, and the cubists were not the attraction.
But apart from the general merits of the question, I suppose there are few people, outside of lovers, who know what it is to commit suicide four times in five weeks. Yet this was what happened to Mr. Pupkin, of the Exchange Bank of Mariposa. Ever since he had known Zena Pepperleigh he had realized that his love for her was hopeless.
I shall always remember this case because no, Zena and I did not quarrel exactly, but she was very much annoyed about Mrs. Selborne. I really had some difficulty in convincing Zena that I had not fallen in love with Mrs. Selborne, and Quarles seemed to think it humorous to also express doubt on the subject.
So Pupkin and Zena in due course of time were married, and went to live in one of the enchanted houses on the hillside in the newer part of the town, where you may find them to this day. You may see Pupkin there at any time cutting enchanted grass on a little lawn in as gaudy a blazer as ever.
Perchance some particularly mean exploit has made her afraid and she has gone into hiding; but if she is dead, I think we must look for her murderer I had almost said her executioner amongst the decent men who have been caught for a while in her toils." "The only decent man seems to be Sir Charles," said Zena. "And I am convinced he was genuinely in love with her," I said.
"No rheumatism?" said Zena. "About as much as I suffer from," said Quarles. "In short, Morrison was rather glad to get safely out of the house. He was certain that the old lady had a revolver under her pillow, and would certainly have shot him had she suspected that he was any one else but a specialist in rheumatism." I was looking at Quarles as he turned to me.
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