“Dear Mr. Meredith,
“In answer to your enquiry I believe my daughter is in London, but I did not know it until this morning. My banker informs me that my daughter called at the bank this morning and drew a considerable sum of money from her private account, but where she has gone and what she is doing with the money I do not know. I need hardly tell you that I am very worried about this matter and I should be glad if you could explain what it is all about.”
It was signed “William Bartholomew.”
T. X. groaned.
“If I had only had the sense to go to the bank this morning, I should have seen her,” he said. “I'm going to lose my job over this.”
The other looked troubled.
“You don't seriously mean that.”
“Not exactly,” smiled T. X., “but I don't think the Chief is very pleased with me just now. You see I have butted into this business without any authority—it isn't exactly in my department. But you have not given me your theory about the candles.”
“I have no theory to offer,” said the other, folding up his serviette; “the candles suggest a typical Albanian murder. I do not say that it was so, I merely say that by their presence they suggest a crime of this character.”
With this T. X. had to be content.