The tall grandfather's clock was striking eleven as we entered the living room. With the remark that we must be hungry, Carter went out into the kitchen saying he would see if the cook had left anything in the ice box. Ranville and myself dropped into the nearest chairs. I was too tired to talk, and the experiences of the last few hours had not been pleasant. But to look at the Scotland Yard Inspector one would never have guessed that anything had taken place. The fine face of the Englishman was as peaceful and contented as if he had just returned from a wedding—instead of a murder. He lay back in his chair, his eyes half closed, watching the curling smoke of his cigarette.
Carter's voice hailed us from the kitchen, and we rose and joined him. Upon the white enameled table was a cold chicken, three bottles of ale, and some rye bread. We pulled our chairs to the table and set to work. When the chicken had become but a memory, Carter rummaged in the ice box and found a pie—a pie of which we did not leave a crumb.
The lunch over, we went out on the large veranda; the night was cool, with a slight breeze, and down at the edge of the lawn we could hear the water lapping on the shore. As Carter handed me a cigar, I happened to think of Trouble, locked in the garage, and went down to rescue him. He greeted me with a loud bark, but at my command followed to the piazza and dropped by the side of my chair. For a while nothing was said, and in the darkness I watched the glowing tips of my friends' cigars. It was Carter who broke the silence, saying to no one in particular:
“Well—what do you think about the murder?”
Ranville's drawling voice came floating from his chair, and his tone was serious:
“It looks to me, Carter, as if we had stumbled upon what will prove one of the most perplexing murder mysteries we have ever seen. There are some very curious things about this affair; and it's my idea it's going to prove rather difficult to solve.”
“It will cause a sensation all right,” was the reply. “You know for weeks Warren's name has been on the front pages of the papers. First there came the accounts of his trip to China. When he did not return at the time expected, the papers began to say his expedition was lost. Then the outlaw war broke in China, and it was thought he was killed; and when he suddenly made his appearance, he certainly got a lot of publicity.”
As he paused, I added my bit. I reminded them that his statement that he had settled the question of evolution had made more comment than anything else.
“That's right,” replied the Englishman. “Even in London the old Times gave a good many columns to that feature. But as he refused to say what it was he had found, the whole affair led to some little controversy.”
“You have had a good deal of experience in murder cases in your Scotland Yard work,” I said to the Inspector. “What do you think was back of Warren's death?”