"
"You're bitin' me 'ead off all the mornin', Fred," protested the
aggrieved landlord. "Fust, the gin was wrong, an' now I'm supposed to
'ave rummidged yur box. Wot for?"
Furneaux popped in.
"My bill ready?" he squeaked.
"No, sir. The train--"
"Leaves at two, but I'm driving to Knoleworth with Superintendent
Fowler."
The door closed behind him. Tomlin shook his head.
"Box! Jack-in-the-box, I reckon," he said darkly, turning to a
dog-eared ledger.
Neither at Knoleworth nor Victoria did Ingerman catch sight of the
detective, though he was anxious either to make the journey in the
company of the representative of Scotland Yard or arrange an early
appointment with him. True, he was not inclined to place the
strange-mannered little man on the same high plane as that suggested by
certain London journalists to whom he had spoken. But he wanted to win
the confidence of "the Yard" in connection with this case, and the belief
that he was being avoided was nettling. He found consolation, of a sort,
in the illustrated papers. One especially contained two pages of local
pictures. "Mr. Grant addressing the crowd," with full text, was very
effective, while there were admirable studies of The Hollies and the
"scene of the tragedy.
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