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Updated: June 11, 2025
Sabin answered. "Follow me through the hall as quickly as possible. There is another carriage waiting at the other entrance, and I expect to find in it Duson and my dressing-case." They alighted and made their way though the crowded vestibules. At the Thirty-fourth Street entrance a carriage was drawn up.
The detective sat for a moment with immovable face. "We, all of us, know our friends, sir," he said. "There are few of us properly acquainted with our enemies." Mr. Sabin lit a cigarette. His fingers were quite steady, but this man was making him think. "You do not seriously believe," he asked, "that Duson met with a death which was intended for me?"
"Lucille must go or run the risk of arrest for complicity in the murder of Duson." "Are you serious?" Mr. Sabin asked, with admirably assumed gravity. "Is it a jesting matter?" she answered fiercely. "Lucille bought poison, the same poison which it will be proved that Duson died of. She came here, she was the last person to enter your room before Duson was found dead.
"You can frighten women," he said, "with a bogie such as this, but you have no longer a woman to deal with. You and I know that such a charge is absurd but you little know the danger to which you expose yourself by trifling with this subject. Duson left a letter addressed to me in which he announced his reasons for committing suicide." "Suicide?" "Yes.
He drank slowly and deliberately. When he set the glass down it was empty. "Duson!" "Your Grace!" "You will pack my things and your own. We shall leave for New York this evening. Telegraph to the Holland House for rooms." "For how many days, your Grace?" "We shall not return here. Pay off all the servants save two of the most trustworthy, who will remain as caretakers."
"You are the Duke's cousin, and you were not included in his tirade. Lucille is in the morning-room, and here is the key. I brought it away with me. You must tell her that all our plans are broken, that we have certain knowledge that the police are on the track of this Duson affair. Get her to your house in Pont Street, and I will be round this afternoon. Or better still, take her to mine."
But the moment you leave me send this despatch." Felix nodded and put the crumpled-up piece of paper in his pocket. The two men passed on. Duson took off his hat, but his fingers were trembling. The carriage door was opened and a tall, spare man descended. "This is Mr. Sabin?" he remarked. Mr. Sabin bowed.
Lucille sat quite still, looking into the fire. "If only," she murmured, "if only this were the end." Duson entered the sitting-room, noiseless as ever, with pale, passionless face, the absolute prototype of the perfect French servant, to whom any expression of vigorous life seems to savour of presumption. He carried a small silver salver, on which reposed a card.
The only noticeable thing about this brief communication was that it was written in yellow pencil of a peculiar shade. Mr. Sabin's eyes glittered as he read. "The yellow crayon!" he muttered. Duson knocked softly at the door. Mr. Sabin thrust the letter and envelope into his breast coat pocket. "This is the luggage porter, sir," Duson announced. "He is prepared to answer any questions."
It is, if you will pardon my saying so, none the less personal, but wholly friendly. The case of Duson will be sifted to the dregs, but unless I am greatly mistaken, and I do not see room for the possibility of a mistake, I know the truth already." "You will share your knowledge?" Mr. Sabin asked quietly. The detective shook his head. "You shall know," he said, "before the last moment.
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