“In a pigeon-hole of uncle’s desk, stuffed in between a lot of old papers,—bills and things.”
“A fine search the police put up, not to find it sooner!”
“But it doesn’t matter, Kane, since I came across it,” and Avice smiled at him. “You must admit that the mystery is solved, even if we don’t know who Hemingway is, and are asked not to find out.”
“Oh, it’s as good a solution as any,” Landon said, indifferently; “but I don’t take much stock in it, and Pinck doesn’t either. Do you, old chap?”
“I see no reason to doubt that the probabilities point to the man mentioned in the note,” Pinckney returned, a little stiffly. He was horribly jealous of Landon, and though not sure that Avice cared for him, he feared that she did. Kane Landon was a handsome fellow, and had, too, as Pinckney noted with concern, that devil-may-care air that is so taking with women. It was Landon’s fad never to discuss anything seriously, and he scoffed at all theories and all facts put forth by Pinckney in his amateur detective work.
Moreover, Pinckney, who was not at all thick-skinned, couldn’t help observing how Avice’s interest in him flagged when Landon was present. Alone with the girl, the reporter could entertain and amuse her, but let Landon appear, and her attention was all for him.
So Pinckney reluctantly went away, knowing he would only be made miserable if he remained longer.
“What makes you act so about that note?” demanded Avice of Landon, after Pinckney left.
“Act how?”
“As if it were of no account. Why, Kane, if uncle wrote that, he must have known how he would meet his death.”