Distasteful though it was, Lockwood looked at the book with a feeling of reverence and opened the volume at the page that had last held the interest of its owner’s scholarly mind.
The crimson stain completely obscured the print, but Lockwood gazed long at the defaced page.
“I wonder,” he said to himself, “if a crack detective could get anything from this. There’s that Stone, Mercer is always raving over—I suppose he’s terribly expensive—yet this strange case might intrigue him—and yet—there’s Anita to be considered. If it should turn the tide against her—”
Later that afternoon, Trask went out again and Lockwood seized his chance.
Calling Anita at the Adams house, he said, “Listen, dear, you needn’t say anything but yes or no, and then no one will understand.”
“All right,” came the reply.
“I’ve just about come to the conclusion I’ll get a clever detective and put him on the case. I mean a real detective—in fact, Fleming Stone.”
“Oh, no!” Anita’s voice was one of utter dismay.
“Why not?”
“I—I can’t tell you this way! You said—”