Jacob Burrell sat in his comfortable armchair and took counsel with
himself. He was a bachelor, and like many other bachelors was wedded to
a hobby, which in some respects was more to him than any wife could
possibly have been. In other words he was an enthusiastic philatelist,
and his collection of the world’s stamps was the envy of every
enthusiast who came in contact with them. For Jacob Burrell they
possessed another interest that was quite apart from their mere
intrinsic value. A very large number of the stamps so carefully pasted
in the book had been collected, or had come into his possession, in the
performance of his professional duties. A very rare 1-1/4 schilling blue
Hamburg was picked up by the merest chance on the same day that he ran a
notorious bank swindler to earth in Berlin; while a certain blue and
brown United States, worth upward of thirty pounds, became his property
during a memorable trip to America in search of a fraudulent trustee,
whose whereabouts the officials of Scotland Yard had not been able to
discover. Well-nigh every page had a story of its own to tell, and when
Burrell was in the humour, he could, with the book before him, reel off
tale after tale, of a description that would be calculated to make the
listener’s hair stand on end with astonishment. At the present moment he
was occupied, as he very well knew, with one of the most knotty problems
he had ever tackled in his life. His face wore a puzzled expression. In
his right hand he held a large magnifying glass and in his left a
Canadian stamp of the year 1852. But whether it was the case he was
thinking of or the stamp it would have been difficult to say.
“Genuine or not?” he asked himself. “That’s the question. If it’s the
first, it’s worth five pounds of any man’s money. If it’s a fudge, then
it’s not the first time I’ve been had, but I’ll take very good care
that, so far as the gentleman is concerned who sold it to me, it shall
be the last.”
He scrutinized it carefully once more through the glass and then shook
his head. Having done so he replaced the doubtful article in the
envelope whence he had taken it, slipped the glass back into its
chamois-leather case, tied the tape round the handle as deliberately as
if all his success in life depended on it, put both book and glass away
in a drawer, and then proceeding to the sideboard on the other side of
the room, slowly and carefully mixed himself a glass of grog. It was
close upon midnight and he felt that the work he had that day completed
entitled him to such refreshment.
“Good Heavens,” he muttered as he sipped it, “what fools some men can
be!”
What this remark had to do with the stamp in question was not apparent,
but his next soliloquy made his meaning somewhat more intelligible.
“If he had wanted to find himself in the dock and to put the rope round
his neck he couldn’t have gone to work better. He must needs stand
talking to the girl in the Strand until she cries, whereupon he calls a
cab and drives home with her, gets out of it and takes up a position in
the full light of a gas lamp, so that the first policeman who passes may
have a look at his face, and recognise him again when the proper time
comes. After that he hurries back to his hotel at such a pace that he
arrives in a sufficiently agitated condition to stand in need of
brandy. Why, it’s an almost unbelievable list of absurd coincidences.
However, he didn’t commit the crime, that’s quite certain. I’ve had a
bit of experience in my time, and I don’t know that I’ve ever made a
mistake about a human face yet. There’s not a trace of guilt in his.
To-morrow morning I’ll just run round to the scene of the murder and
begin my investigations there. Though the Pro’s have been over the
ground before me, it will be strange if I can not pick up something that
has not been noticed by their observant eyes.”
A perpetual feud existed between the famous Jacob Burrell and the
genuine representatives of the profession. His ways were unorthodox, the
latter declared. He did not follow the accustomed routine, and what was
worse, when he managed to obtain information it was almost, if not
quite, impossible to get him to divulge it for their benefit. Such a man
deserved to be set down on every possible opportunity.
True to the arrangement he had made with himself on the previous
evening, Burrell immediately after breakfast next morning set out for
Burford Street. On reaching No. 16 he ascended the steps and entered the
grimy passage, and inquired from a man he found there where the
landlord was to be discovered. In reply the individual he interrogated
went to the head of a flight of stairs that descended like an abyss into
the regions below, and shouted something in German. A few moments later
the proprietor of the establishment made his appearance. He was a small
sallow individual with small bloodshot eyes, suggestive of an undue
partiality for Schnapps, and the sadness of whose face gave one the
impression that he cherished a grievance against the whole world. His
sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, and he carried a knife in one
hand and a potato in the other.
“Vat is dat you vant mit me?” he inquired irritably, as he took stock of
the person before him.
“I want you to show me the room in which that Italian girl, Teresina
Cardi, was murdered,” Burrell replied, without wasting time.
The landlord swore a deep oath in German.
“It is always de murder from morning until night,” he answered. “I am
sick mit it. Dat murder will be the ruin mit me. Every day der is
somebody come and say ‘Where is dot room?’ Who are you that you ask me
that I should to you show it?”
Burrell, to the best of his ability, explained his motive for proffering
such a request. This must have been satisfactory, for in the end the
landlord consented to conduct him to the room in question. From the day
of the murder it had been kept locked, and it must be confessed that
since no one would inhabit it, and it did not in consequence return its
owner its accustomed rent, he had some measure of excuse for the
irritation he displayed in connection with it.
“Dere it is,” he said, throwing the door open, “and you can look your
full at it. I have scrubbed all dot floor dill my arms ache mit it, but
I can not get der blood marks out. Dot stain is just where she was
found, boor girl!”
The man pointed, with grizly relish, to a dark stain upon the floor, and
then went on to describe the impression the murder and its attendant
incidents had produced upon him. To any other man than Burrell, they
would probably have been uninteresting to a degree. The latter, however,
knowing the importance of little things, allowed him to continue his
chatter. At the same time his quick eyes were taking in the character
of the room, making his own deductions and drawing his own inferences.
At last, when the other had exhausted his powers of description, Burrell
took from his pocket his favourite magnifying glass, cased in its
covering of chamois leather. Having prepared it for business, he went
down on his hands and knees and searched the floor minutely. What he was
looking for, or what he hoped to find, he did not know himself, but a
life’s experience had taught him that clews are often picked up in the
most unexpected quarters.
“I’ve known a man get himself hanged,” he had once been heard to remark,
“simply because he neglected to put a stitch to a shirt button and had
afterward to borrow a needle and thread to do it. I remember another who
had the misfortune to receive a sentence of fifteen years for forgery,
who would never have been captured, but for a peculiar blend of tobacco,
which he would persist in smoking after the doctors had told him it was
injurious to his health.”
So slow and so careful was his investigation, that the landlord, who
preferred more talkative company, very soon tired of watching him.
Bidding him lock the door and bring the key downstairs with him when he
had finished, he returned to the culinary operations from which he had
been summoned. Burrell, however, still remained upon his knees on the
floor, searching every crack and crevice with that superb and
never-wearying patience that was one of his most remarkable
characteristics. It was quite certain, as the landlord had said, that
the floor had been most thoroughly and conscientiously scrubbed since
the night of the murder. He rose to his feet and brushed his knees.
“Nothing there,” he said to himself. “They’ve destroyed any chance of my
finding anything useful.”
Walking to the fireplace he made a most careful examination of the
grate. Like the floor, it had also been rigorously cleaned. Not a
vestige of ash or dust remained in it.
“Polished up to be ready for the newspaper reporters, I suppose,” said
Burrell sarcastically to himself. “They couldn’t have done it better if
they had wanted to make sure of the murderer not being caught.”
After that he strolled to the window and looked out. The room, as has
already been stated elsewhere, was only a garret, and the small window
opened upon a slope of tiled roof. Above the eaves and at the bottom of
the slope just mentioned, was a narrow lead gutter of the usual
description. From the window it was impossible, unless one leaned well
out, to look down into the street below.
“Just let me think for a moment,” said Burrell to himself, as he stood
looking at the roofs of the houses opposite; “the night of the murder
was a warm one, and this window would almost certainly be open. I
suppose if the people in the houses on the other side of the way had
seen or heard anything, they would have been sure to come forward before
now. The idea, however, is always worth trying. I’ve a good mind to make
a few inquiries over there later on.”
As he said this he gave a little start forward, and leaning out of the
window, looked down over the tiles into the gutter below. A small
fragment of a well-smoked cigarette could just be descried in it.
“My luck again,” he said with a chuckle. “If some reporter or sensation
hunter didn’t throw it there, which is scarcely likely, I may be on the
right track after all. Now who could have been smoking cigarettes up
here? First and foremost I’ll have a look at it.”
On entering, he had placed his walking stick on the table in the middle
of the room. He turned to get it, and as he did so he took from his
pocket a small housewife. His multitudinous experiences had taught him
the advisability of carrying such an article about with him, and on this
occasion it promised to prove more than ordinarily useful. From one
compartment he selected a long, stout needle which he placed in a hole
in the handle of the walking stick. Then returning once more to the
window, and leaning well out, he probed for the cigarette lying so
snugly five or six feet below him. Twice he was unsuccessful, but the
third attempt brought the precious relic to his hand. Taking it to the
table, he drew up a chair and sat down to examine it. It was sodden and
discoloured, but the rim of the gutter had in a measure protected it,
and it still held together. His famous magnifying glass was again
brought into action. Once upon a time there had been printing on the
paper, but now it was well-nigh undecipherable. As I have already
remarked, however, Burrell was a man gifted with rare patience, and
after a scrutiny that lasted some minutes, he was able to make out
sufficient of the printing to know that the maker’s name ended with
“olous,” while the place in which the cigarette had been manufactured
was _Cairo_.
“I wonder,” said the detective to himself, “if this is destined to be of
any service to me. At first glance it would appear as if my first
impression was a wrong one. Mr. Henderson, who is accused of the murder,
has lately returned from Cairo. Though, perhaps he never purchased any
tobacco there, it would certainly do him no good to have it produced as
evidence, that the butt end of a cigarette from that place was found in
the gutter outside the window of the murdered woman’s room.”
After another prolonged inspection of the room, and not until he had
quite convinced himself that there was nothing more to be discovered in
it, he descended to the lower regions of the house, returned the key to
the landlord, and immediately left the building. Crossing the street, he
made his way to the house opposite. The caretaker received him, and
inquired the nature of his business. He gave his explanation, but a few
questions were sufficient to convince him that he must not expect to
receive any assistance from that quarter. The rooms, so he discovered,
from which it would have been possible to catch any glimpse of what was
going on in Teresina’s apartment in the opposite house, were tenanted
only in the daytime.
“Nothing to be learned there,” said Burrell to himself, when he had
thanked the man and had left the house. “Now the question to be decided
is, what shall I do next?”
He stood upon the pavement meditatively scratching his chin for a few
moments. Then he must have made up his mind, for he turned sharply round
and walked off in the direction of the Tottenham Court Road. Taking a
’bus there, he made his way on it to Oxford Street, thence, having
changed conveyances, he proceeded as far as Regent Street. It was a
bright, sunny morning, and the pavements of that fashionable
thoroughfare were crowded with pedestrians. As the burly,
farmerish-looking man strode along, few, if any, of the people he passed
would have believed him to be the great detective whose name had struck
a terror, that nothing else could have inspired, into the hearts of so
many hardened criminals. When he was a little more than half-way down
the street, he turned sharply to his left hand, passed into another and
shorter thoroughfare, then turned to his left again, and finally
entered another street on his right. He was now in the neighbourhood of
quiet-looking houses of the office description. There was nothing about
them to indicate that their occupants were the possessors of any great
amount of wealth, and yet one could not help feeling, as one looked at
them, that there was a substantial, money-making air about them. Having
reached a particular doorway, Burrell paused, consulted the names
engraved upon the brass plate on the wall outside, and then entered. He
found himself in a small hall, from which a narrow flight of
linoleum-covered stairs led to the floors above. These stairs he
ascended, to presently find himself standing before a door on which the
names of Messrs. Morris and Zevenboom were painted. Disregarding the
word “Private,” which for some inexplicable reason was printed
underneath the name of the firm, he turned the handle and entered. A
small youth was seated at a table in the centre of the apartment, busily
engaged making entries in a large book propped up before him. He looked
up on seeing Burrell, and, in an off-hand fashion, inquired his
business.
“I want to see Mr. Zevenboom if he’s at home,” said the latter. “If he
is, just tell him, my lad, that I should like to speak to him, will
you?”
“That’s all very well,” said the boy with an assurance beyond his years,
“but how am I to do it if I don’t know your name? Ain’t a thought
reader, am I?”
“Tell him Mr. Burrell would like to speak to him,” said the detective
without any appearance of displeasure at the lad’s impertinence. “I
fancy he will know who I am, even if you don’t!”
“Right you are, I’ll be back in a moment.”
So saying, the lad disappeared into an inner apartment with an air that
seemed to insinuate that if Mr. Zevenboom might be impressed by the
stranger, it was certainly more than he was. His feelings received
rather a shock, however, when his employer informed him in a stage
whisper that Mr. Burrell “_was the great detective_” and made him show
him in at once and not keep him waiting. Jacob was accordingly ushered
in, with becoming ceremony, and found himself received by a little man,
whose beady black eyes and sharp features proclaimed his nationality
more plainly than any words could have done.
“Ah, mein dear friend,” said he, “I am glad to see you. It is long since
we have met, and you are looking as well as ever you did.”
“I am all right, thank you,” said Burrell genially. “Thank goodness, in
spite of hard work, there’s never very much the matter with me.”
Before he seated himself the other went to a cupboard at the back of his
desk and, having unlocked it, took from it a cigar box, one of a number
of others, which he placed upon the table at his guest’s elbow.
“Try one of these,” he said, “you will smoke nothing better in all
Europe. I pledge you the word of Israel Zevenboom to that.”
“I can quite believe you,” said Burrell, and then mindful of the
business that had brought him there, he added, “if there’s one man in
all London who knows a good cigar I suppose you are that one.”
The little man grinned in high appreciation of the compliment.
“Cigars or cigarettes, I tell you, it’s all the same to me,” he said,
spreading his hands apart. “There is no tobacco grown, or upon the
market, that I can not put a name to.”
“And you are familiar with all the best makers, I suppose?”
The other again spread his hands apart as if such a question was not of
sufficient importance to require an answer.
“I know them all,” he continued pompously. “And they all know me. Morris
and Zevenboom is a firm whose name is famous with them all.”
A pause of upward of half a minute followed this remark, during which
Burrell lit his cigar.
“And now what can I do for you, my friend?” the other inquired. “I shall
be most happy to oblige you as far as lies in my power. You were very
good to me in de matter of----”
He paused for a moment. Then he thought better of it and came to a
sudden stop.
“Well, in the matter that we both remember,” he added finally.
“I want a little information from you, that I believe it is in your
power to give,” said Burrell, taking a note book from his pocket and
from it producing the scrap of cigarette he had taken from the gutter of
the house in Burford Street. He placed it on the desk before his
companion.
“I want you to tell me if you can who are the makers of these
cigarettes, and whether they can be obtained in England?”
The other took up his glasses and perched them on the end of his
delicate nose, after which he held the charred fragment of the cigarette
up to the light. This did not seem to satisfy him, so he took it to the
window and examined it more closely. He turned it over, smelt it,
extracted a shred of the tobacco, smelt that, and at last came back to
the table.
“That cigarette was made by my good friend Kosman Constantinopolous, of
Cairo, a most excellent firm, but as yet they have no representatives in
England. Some day they will have.”
“Where is the nearest place at which these cigarettes can be obtained?”
asked Burrell.
“In Paris--if you like I will give you the address,” the other replied,
“or better still I will get some for you should you desire to have some.
They are expensive but the tobacco is good.”
“I won’t trouble you to procure me any just now, thank you,” Burrell
answered. “I only wanted to try and fix the maker’s name. It comes into
some important business that I am just now at work upon. I suppose I
can rely upon your information being correct? It will make a big
difference to me.”
“My good friend, you may be quite sure of that,” the other answered with
pride. “I am Israel Zevenboom, the expert, and after fifty years’
experience, should not be likely to make a mistake in such a simple
matter as that.”
Then, at Burrell’s request, he thereupon wrote down the address of the
firm in Paris, after which the detective thanked him heartily for his
trouble and bade him good-bye.
“To-morrow,” said Burrell to himself, “if all goes well, I will take a
run down to Mr. Henderson’s country seat and make a few inquiries there.
After that it looks as if Paris is likely to be the scene of my next
operations. There are one or two little preliminaries, however, that
must be settled before I leave England.”
He was as good as his word, and the mid-day train next day landed him
upon the platform at Detwich. He inquired how far it was to the Hall,
and on being informed of his direction, set off along the High Road at a
swinging pace. He was a man who never rode when he could walk, and, had
he not chosen another profession, it is possible he might have made a
name for himself in the athletic world as a pedestrian.
“It seems a sad thing,” he said to himself, as he turned in through the
lodge gates and began to cross the park, “that a young gentleman owning
such a beautiful place as this should be clapped into limbo on a charge
of murder. But here I suppose is what the literary gentlemen call the
‘Irony of Fate.’ However, it’s my business to get him out of the scrape
he’s in if I can, and not to bother my head about anything else.”
Having reached the house he sent his name in to Mrs. Henderson, and
asked for an interview. Her daughter Kitty was with her in the morning
room when the butler entered.
“Mr. Jacob Burrell?” she said in a puzzled way, looking at the card the
man had handed to her. “I don’t know the name, do you, Kitty?”
“Why, yes, mother, of course I do,” the girl replied. “How could you
forget? He is the famous detective whom the lawyers have engaged to take
up the case for poor Godfrey. Tell him that we will see him at once,
Williamson, and show him in here.”
A few moments later Burrell made his appearance and bowed to the two
ladies. That he was not at all the sort of individual they had expected
to see was evident from the expressions upon their faces.
“Doubtless, ladies, you have heard my name and the business upon which I
am engaged,” he said, by way of introducing himself.
They acknowledged that they had done so, and when they had invited him
to be seated, inquired what success he had so far met with. He shook his
head cautiously.
“In these sort of cases you must not expect to succeed all at once,” he
said. Then observing the look upon their faces he added: “You see, Mrs.
Henderson, a big case, unless the evidence is very clear and
straightforward, is not unlike a Chinese puzzle, being a lot of little
pieces cut out of one big block. Well, all the little cubes are tipped
out upon the floor in confusion, and before you can begin to put them
together it is necessary to familiarize yourself with the rough outlines
of the parts and to make yourself acquainted with the sizes, shapes, and
numbers of the pieces you have to work with. That done you can begin
your work of putting them together.”
“Mr. Burrell is quite right, mother,” Kitty remarked. “We must be
patient and not expect too much at first. We ourselves know that
Godfrey is innocent, and Mr. Burrell will very soon demonstrate it to
the world, I am very sure.” Then turning to the detective she continued:
“Since you have spared the time to come down here, it is only natural to
suppose that you desire to ask us questions. If so, please do not
hesitate to put them. My mother and I will--only too thankfully--do all
that lies in our power to assist you in your work.”
“Well, miss,” said Burrell, “I won’t deny that there are certain
questions I should like to put to you. In the meantime, however, if you
will allow me, I’ll just take a walk round the place, and if I have your
permission to enter your brother’s rooms, it’s just possible I may be
able to find something that will be of advantage to him there.”
“Go where you please,” said Mrs. Henderson. “Heaven knows at such a time
we should place no restrictions upon any one. If you can save my poor
boy--I shall be grateful to you forever.”
“Be sure, madam, I will do my best. I can’t say more.”
Kitty rose from her chair.
“Perhaps it would be better for me to show you my brother’s studio
first,” she said. “Will you come with me?”
Burrell followed her out of the room and down the long corridor to the
room in question. Kitty left him there, and for upward of half-an-hour
he remained in the apartment, busily engaged upon what he called
“forming his own impressions.” After that he passed through the French
windows out into the grounds beyond, had a few minutes’ conversation
with some of the men, and, when he had exhausted that portion of the
business, returned to the house to find that luncheon had been provided
for him in the library. He thereupon sat down to it and made an
excellent meal. That finished, he was wondering what he should do next,
when Kitty entered the room.
“I hope you have been well looked after, Mr. Burrell,” she said. “You
are quite sure there is nothing else you would like?”
“Nothing at all, thank you,” he answered, “unless I might ask you for a
cigarette?”
“A cigarette,” she replied, with a suggestion of astonishment, for he
did not look like the sort of man who would have cared for anything less
than a pipe or a strong cigar. “That is very unfortunate, for I am
afraid we have not one in the house. My brother Godfrey, you see, never
smokes them, and I remember his saying just before----” she paused for a
moment and a look of pain came into her face, “just before this trouble
occurred,” she continued, “that the supply he had laid in for his
friends was exhausted and that he must order some more.” Then she
appeared to recollect something, for her face brightened. “Ah!” she
cried, “now I come to think of it, we _do_ happen to have a box which
Mr. Fensden left here before he went away. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get
it.”
He thanked her and she left the room, whereupon he walked to the window
and stood looking out upon the lawn, drumming with the fingers of his
right hand upon the pane before him. What his thoughts were at that
moment will in all probability never be known, but when, a few minutes
later, Kitty returned with a box of cigarettes in her hand, he turned to
greet her with as much excitement in his face as he had ever been known
to show about anything. The box in question was flat and square, with
some Arabic writing in gold upon the lid and the inscription Kosman
Constantinopolous et Cie, Cairo.
Jacob Burrell may or may not have been a cigarette smoker (for my part
I have never seen him with so mild a weed between his lips). I only know
that on this particular occasion he stood with the cigarette in one hand
for some time without lighting it, and the box in the other.
“Did I understand you to say that Mr. Fensden gave these cigarettes to
your brother?” he inquired at last, after he had turned certain matters
over in his mind.
“Yes,” she replied. “He used to say laughingly that the weakest of all
Godfrey’s weak points was his dislike to Egyptian cigarettes, and that
if he would only try to cultivate the taste for that tobacco, he would
be converted from barbarism to comparative civilization. You have seen
Mr. Fensden, of course?”
“I saw him in Court,” Burrell replied, apparently without much interest.
“And now, I think, with your permission, miss, I will return to the
station. I have seen all that is necessary for my purpose here, and am
anxious to get back to town as soon as possible. There are several
matters there that demand my attention.” Kitty was silent for a moment.
Then she gained her courage and spoke out.
“Mr. Burrell,” she said, laying her hand upon his arm, “I suspect you
can very well imagine what a terrible time of suspense this is for us.
As I said this morning, we all know that my brother is innocent of the
crime with which he is charged. But how can we prove it? All our hopes
are centred upon you. You have done such wonderful things in the past
that surely you can bring the real perpetrator of this hideous crime to
justice. Can you not give us even a grain of hope to comfort us? My poor
mother is fretting herself to a shadow about it.”
“I scarcely know what I can say just yet,” he replied. “I, of course,
have begun to form my own theories, but they are too unsubstantial as
yet for me to be able to pin any faith upon them--much less to allow you
to do so. This, however, I will tell you, and any one who knows me will
tell you that it is something for me to admit. What I say is that up to
the present moment, I have been more successful than I had dared to hope
I should be. Like yourselves, I have a conviction that your brother is
innocent, and you may believe me when I say that it won’t be my fault if
we can’t prove it. May I ask you to rest content with that? I can not
say more.”
“I can not thank you sufficiently for your kindness,” she answered.
“Your words give me fresh hope. May I tell Miss Devereux what you say?”
“Miss Devereux?” asked Burrell, who for the moment had forgotten the
young lady in question.
“It is to Miss Devereux that my brother is engaged,” Kitty answered.
“You may imagine how sad she is. Yet she has been, and still is, so
brave about it.”
“Not braver than you are, I’ll be bound,” said Burrell gallantly. “And
now I will wish you good-afternoon.”
He did so, and refusing her offer of a carriage to take him, was soon
striding across the park on his way back to the railway station. As he
walked along he thought of what he had done that day, and of the strange
good fortune that had so far attended his efforts.
“It is only the merest guess,” he said to himself, “and yet it’s the
old, old story. It is when they think themselves most secure, and that
detection is impossible, that they are in the greatest danger. At that
point some minute circumstance is sufficient to give them away, and it’s
all over. This looks as if it will prove another example of the one
rule.”
It was nearly five o’clock when he reached London. Arriving there he
called a hansom and bade the man drive him with all speed to Mr. Codey’s
office. As it happened he was only just in time to catch the lawyer, who
was on the point of leaving.
“Halloa, Burrell,” cried the genial Mr. Codey on seeing him, “you seem
excited. What’s the matter now?”
“I didn’t know that I had anything to be excited about,” Burrell replied
with a smile at the lawyer’s attempt to draw him out. “I only thought I
would drop in upon you, sir, to let you know that I am leaving for the
Continent first thing to-morrow morning. I may be away a week, possibly
a fortnight. I’m not able to put a definite time upon it, for it will
all depend upon circumstances.”
“Then I suppose, as usual, you are beginning to find yourself on the
right track,” the lawyer remarked drily.
“And, just as usual, sir, I reply that that’s as may be,” said the
other. “I don’t deny that I’ve got hold of a piece of information that
may eventually put me on the proper line--but I’ve got to sift it
first--before I can act upon it. That’s why I’m going abroad.”
“Don’t be any longer than you can help about it, then,” returned the
lawyer. “You know when the trial comes off?”
“As well as you do, sir! That’s why I want to get away at once. There’s
no time to be wasted--that’s if we’re to be properly posted.”
“Well, then, good-bye, and may good luck go with you.”
Next morning Burrell, acting on the plan he had made, left London for
Paris, with the portion of cigarette in his pocket.