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Updated: August 11, 2024
Hunter, the journalist who was helping you in the matter of Lady Hermione Grandison's marriage, has been murdered?" The other men in the room caught a new quality in Steingall's voice.
Perhaps it is as well, because I meant to get away, and would have fought. . . . That is all. . . . Will one of you give me a cigarette?" Devar produced a case, and in response to Steingall's nod, offered its contents to the prisoner, who took two cigarettes; nor could he be prevailed on to accept more. Despite his hang-dog looks he had an undoubted air of refinement.
It was no time for argument. Both Curtis and Devar read into Steingall's muttered injunction the belief that the hunt had ended for the night. They knew that the detectives could take care of themselves, and they had scrambled through the window and made off swiftly in the direction of the waiting automobile before the despoiled Hungarian regained his feet.
Then you will appreciate the importance of the things said here." Curtis remembered that fleeting impression he had garnered while watching Clancy during the Frenchman's statement, which, however, appeared only to confirm the ample history already in Steingall's possession. But again his thoughts were diverted from the matter by Steingall's next words.
Therefore, he missed Steingall's first words to the hotel clerk, which would have given him furiously to think, while it is reasonable to suppose that he would have paid quite a large sum of money to have heard the clerk's answer. For the detective said: "Do you happen to know anything about a Frenchman, name of Jean de Courtois?" And the clerk replied: "Why, yes. He's in his room now, I believe."
The chauffeur was beginning to like the excitement of acting as supernumerary on the staff of the Detective Bureau. "Will you jump in, or shall I prowl with you down Fifth Avenue?" asked Devar, blithely ignoring Steingall's somewhat strained welcome. "We are keeping an appointment," said Curtis.
She strove again to read the printed accounts of the crime, in order to wrest from them some explanation of the extraordinary charge brought against her aunt, but the words danced before her eyes. At last, with an effort, she threw the paper away and bravely resolved to follow Steingall's parting advice. When she reached the warehouse she was naturally the object of much covert observation.
Yet he retained his senses sufficiently to note the police-captain's slight signal to his men to come on board, and again he heard Steingall's voice: "Don't make any trouble, Voles. It'll be all the worse for you in the end." The detective's warning was not given without good cause. He knew the faces of men, and in the blazing eyes of this man he read a maniacal fury.
"Not a word about them," said the detective. The purveyor of cigars and news was positively awe-stricken. He was aware of Steingall's repute as the "man with the microscopic eye," and he fully expected that the "sleuth's" penetrating organ had already discerned the word "murderer" branded on Curtis's shirt front.
"What time will you want me in the morning?" went on Curtis, looking in the direction of the office. He was really thinking about the mislaid key; not for an instant did he imagine that by that simple gesture he had almost eradicated from Steingall's mind the germ of doubt which events had certainly conspired to plant there. "I want you now," came the somewhat startling answer. "Eh, why?"
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