Of course there is a sensation, a murmur of voices that the coroner quickly checks. The few remaining witnesses are unimportant and the inquest is adjourned until afternoon.
CHAPTER VIII.
A PROPOSITION OF PARTNERSHIP.
The usual congress of village gossips is in session to-night at the Exchange hotel. It is the fourth day since the Raymond Bank affair, and the details of the tragedy are discussed with an animation and a wealth of clew that brings a smile to the face of John Barker, the New York detective, who retreats to a quiet corner of the hotel veranda to finish his cigar and muse upon the affair with the calm contemplation characteristic of men in his calling.
The detective’s face expresses a shade of annoyance as Jack Ashley ascends the steps to the veranda, draws a chair opposite his, lights a cigar and tilts his seat back at a comfortable angle.
“You are John Barker, the detective,” began Ashley. Barker assents with a nod.
“I haven’t a card with me, but my name is Jack Ashley, and I am attached to the staff of the New York Hemisphere.” Barker looks duly impressed.
“You are an ordinary detective, I presume?” Barker stares. “What I mean is, if you will pardon my frankness, you are not a Sherlock Holmes or a M. Lecocq?” It is apparent from his face that the detective is in doubt whether to laugh or express his displeasure. He compromises with a faint smile and accepts the proffered cigar.
“My reason for asking,” goes on Ashley, “is that I have a proposition to offer you.”
Barker strikes a match to touch off his weed. “That proposition is—”