Every time that bell gave its rasping whir Bayliss felt an involuntary hope that it might be a call to an interesting case of detective work, and he was distinctly disappointed if it proved to be a mere social message. One morning just before nine o’clock the bell wakened him from a light doze, and taking the receiver, he heard the voice of his old friend Martin Hopkins talking to him.
“I want you at once,” the message came; “I hope nothing will prevent your coming immediately. I am in Clearbrook. If you can catch the nine-thirty train from the City, I will meet you here at the station at ten o’clock. There has been murder committed and we want your help. Will you come?”
“Yes,” replied Bayliss. “I will take the nine-thirty. Who is the victim?”
“Richard Hemmingway, my lifelong friend. I am a guest at his house. The tragedy occurred last night, and I want you to get here before anything is touched.”
“I’ll be there! good-by,” and hanging up the receiver, Bayliss proceeded to keep his word.
“You see, Harris,” he said, silently, to his impalpable friend, “Martin Hopkins is a gentleman of the old school and a man whom I greatly admire. If he calls me to a case requiring detective investigation, you may be sure it’s an interesting affair and quite worthy of our attention. Eh, Harris?” The imaginary companion having agreed to this, Bayliss went calmly and expectantly on his way.
At the Clearbrook station he was met by Mr. Hopkins, who proposed that they walk to the house in order that he might tell Bayliss some of the circumstances.
“Mr. Hemmingway was my oldest and best friend,” began Mr. Hopkins, “and, with my wife and daughter, I’ve been spending a few days at his home. He was a widower, and his household includes his ward, Miss Sheldon, his nephew, Everett Collins, a housekeeper, butler, and several under-servants. This morning at six o’clock, the butler discovered the body of Mr. Hemmingway in his library, where the poor man had been strangled to death. Clapham, that’s the butler, raised an alarm, at once, and ever since then the house has been full of doctors, detectives and neighbors. We are almost there now, so I’ll tell you frankly, Bayliss, that I sent for you to look after my own interests. You and I are good friends, and you’re the best detective I know. The evidence seems, so far, to point to some one in the house, and among those addle-pated, cocksure detectives now on the case it is not impossible that I may myself be suspected of the crime.”
“What!” cried Bert Bayliss in amazement.
“Just that,” went on the old man, almost smiling. “Hemmingway and I have had large business transactions of late, and as a big bundle of securities has disappeared from his safe, it may look as if I had a hand in the matter.”