Dr Fell pushed himself to his feet with the aid of his cane. He was fiery with earnestness.
`You still don't understand. What happened? Who knocked at the door of this man's house in the Faubourg SaintGermain? What terrible adventure was on the way? That's what you should think of, Hadley…. I say to, you, to hell with whether this manuscript is preserved for some smug collector to prattle learnedly about and exhibit to his friends like a new gold tooth. To hell whether: it cost ten thousand pounds or a halfpenny. What I'm interested in is what magnificent dream of blood and violence began with that knock at the door.'
`All right, to hell with it,' the chief inspector agreed mildly. `If you're really so curious, you can ask Bitton about the next instalment. He's read it'
Dr Fell shook his head. `No,' he said. `No, I'm never going to ask. That last line will be a deathless "to be continued in our next" for me to weave answers about it all the rest of my life.!
'Well, let's' get out,' the chief inspector suggested. 'Whatever you want to dream about, that fireplace has at least one thing to tell us. The manuscript was lying under those burnt "Mary" letters. Driscoll burnt the manuscript before he left here on his way to the Tower. Mrs Bitton broke in at five o'clock, and destroyed the evidence against her.'
`That's right, I know,' the doctor said, wearily. `Look here. I've been several hours without a drink.; If we could find one hereabouts.?'
`Sound enough,' said the chief inspector. `Then I'll outline my case to you.'
He led the way out of the little room and down to the forlorn dining-room, where he snapped on the lights of the mosaic dome over the table. Undoubtedly, Rampole thought, that dome had come with the flat; it was of ornate ugliness, with golds and reds and blues jumbled together; and it threw a harsh, weird light on their faces. Curiously enough, the impalpable presence of the dead man was stronger here than anywhere else. It was growing on Rampole with a ghostly and horrible reality. On the mantelpiece of this dusty dining-room, a marble clock with gilt facings had stopped; stopped many days ago, for the glass face was thick with dust. But it had stopped at a quarter to two. Rampole noted the coincidence with a vivid memory of Driscoll lying white-faced and sightless on the steps of Traitors' Gate. He stared at the pieces of orange peel on the spotted cloth of the table, and shuddered.
`Sorry' he observed, with a sort of jerk and without conscious volition. `I can't drink his whisky. It doesn't seem right, somehow!
'Neither can I,' said Dalrye, quietly.