“Nothing probably, but we must leave no stone unturned. Well, Mrs. Erskine may know more. I should like to find out what Robert Erskine's attitude on labour questions was.”
“But his letter—! Man, a young fellow is hardly likely to kill himself for such like whimsies.”
“True again, Mr. Russell; but as there doesn't seem any reason lying around on the surface why a wealthy young man should kill himself, we must poke about for one. By the way, do you know how much his uncle left him?”
“Mrs. Erskine wrote to the effect that he was now wealthier than she. That's all I know.”
“Thanks.” The Chief Inspector drew Watts into another room.
“Cable to the Toronto police for full particulars of young Erskine and Cox. And repeat to Calgary police.” Pointer turned to his desk with the air of a man who has still a full day's work before him, whatever the hands of the clock might say about it.
Mr. Russell cleared his throat, but his courage apparently failed him, as with a bow and a “See you to-morrow at your hotel, Mr. Russell—at eleven, if that hour suits you,” the Chief Inspector was gone.
Mr. Russell cleared his throat again.
“Mr. Watts—I wonder, now—I'm wishful to see the room where poor Robert Erskine took his life. I knew him as a boy, you see.” There was genuine feeling in the Scotsman's face.
The detective opened the door. “Chief Inspector!” he called, but his superior was out of earshot.