“Not when I left Carver, which was ten minutes ago,” replied Tab. “They suspect that man Brown. His gloves were found in the passage.”
“Brown, the man from China?—It was pretty awful, wasn’t it?” asked Babe in a hushed voice, as though the fearfulness of those moments through which he had passed were only now appealing to him in their sheer terror. “My God, what an awful thing! I’ve tried not to think about it all night, that horrible memory persisted so that it nearly drove me mad.”
“I have one bit of good news for you, Rex,” said the other as he began to prepare for bed. “We found your uncle’s will. That is unofficial.”
“You found the will, did you?” said the other listlessly. “I am afraid I am not interested in his will just now. Who gets the money, the Dogs’ Home, or the Cats’ Creche?”
“It goes to a stout young architect,” said Tab with a grin, “and I can see our little home breaking up. Maybe I’ll come and see you when you are rich, Babe, if you’ll know me.”
Rex’s impatient gesture silenced him.
“I’m not thinking about money—I’m thinking about other things,” he said.
Tab slept for four hours and woke to find that Rex had gone out.
When he came into the street the special editions of the Sunday newspapers were selling with stories of the murder.
The news editor had not arrived when Tab reached the office, but he turned in the rough narrative of the tragedy to guide the office in its general search for Walters and Brown.