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Page 15
DEAR Texas LADY: I am writing this late in the afternoon. The sun
is casting long black shadows on the garden lawn, and the whole
world is so bright and matter-of-fact I have to argue with myself
to be convinced that the events of that tragic night through which
I passed really happened.
The newspapers this morning helped to make it all seem a dream; not
a line--not a word, that I can find. When I think of America, and
how by this time the reporters would be swarming through our house
if this thing had happened over there, I am the more astonished.
But then, I know these English papers. The great Joe Chamberlain
died the other night at ten, and it was noon the next day when the
first paper to carry the story appeared--screaming loudly that it
had scored a beat. It had. Other lands, other methods.
It was probably not difficult for Bray to keep journalists such as
these in the dark. So their great ungainly sheets come out in total
ignorance of a remarkable story in Adelphi Terrace. Famished for
real news, they begin to hint at a huge war cloud on the horizon.
Because tottering Austria has declared war on tiny Serbia, because
the Kaiser is to-day hurrying, with his best dramatic effect, home
to Berlin, they see all Europe shortly bathed in blood. A nightmare
born of torrid days and tossing nights!
But it is of the affair in Adelphi Terrace that you no doubt want
to hear. One sequel of the tragedy, which adds immeasurably to the
mystery of it all, has occurred, and I alone am responsible for its
discovery. But to go back:
I returned from mailing your letter at dawn this morning, very
tired from the tension of the night. I went to bed, but could not
sleep. More and more it was preying on my mind that I was in a most
unhappy position. I had not liked the looks cast at me by Inspector
Bray, or his voice when he asked how I came to live in this house.
I told myself I should not be safe until the real murderer of the
poor captain was found; and so I began to puzzle over the few clues
in the case--especially over the asters, the scarab pin and the
Homburg hat.
It was then I remembered the four copies of the Daily Mail that
Bray had casually thrown into the waste-basket as of no interest.
I had glanced over his shoulder as he examined these papers, and
had seen that each of them was folded so that our favorite department
--the Agony Column--was uppermost. It happened I had in my desk
copies of the Mail for the past week. You will understand why.
I rose, found those papers, and began to read. It was then that
I made the astounding discovery to which I have alluded.
For a time after making it I was dumb with amazement, so that no
course of action came readily to mind. In the end I decided that
the thing for me to do was to wait for Bray's return in the morning
and then point out to him the error he had made in ignoring the Mail.
Bray came in about eight o'clock and a few minutes later I heard
another man ascend the stairs. I was shaving at the time, but I
quickly completed the operation and, slipping on a bathrobe, hurried
up to the captain's rooms. The younger brother had seen to the
removal of the unfortunate man's body in the night, and, aside from
Bray and the stranger who had arrived almost simultaneously with
him, there was no one but a sleepy-eyed constable there.
Bray's greeting was decidedly grouchy. The stranger, however--a
tall bronzed man--made himself known to me in the most cordial
manner. He told me he was Colonel Hughes, a close friend of the
dead man; and that, unutterably shocked and grieved, he had come to
inquire whether there was anything he might do. "Inspector," said
I, "last night in this room you held in your hand four copies of
the Daily Mail. You tossed them into that basket as of no account.
May I suggest that you rescue those copies, as I have a rather
startling matter to make clear to you?" Too grand an official to
stoop to a waste-basket, he nodded to the constable. The latter
brought the papers; and, selecting one from the lot, I spread it
out on the table. "The issue of July twenty-seventh," I said.
I pointed to an item half-way down the column of Personal Notices.
You yourself, my lady, may read it there if you happen to have saved
a copy. It ran as follows:
"RANGOON: The asters are in full bloom in the garden at Canterbury.
They are very beautiful--especially the white ones."
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