I had gathered in my camera man and artist and hurried back to the office to write a story that I knew would be exactly similar in its facts with those in the other morning papers, leading off naturally with the arrest of the chauffeur.
There were still quite a number of relatives and family friends at the house when Lanagan returned. The reception hall was brilliantly lighted, and he hung up his hat. As he did so he examined Macondray’s topcoat carefully and quickly. On the collar was one hair. It was tucked away, labeled, in a separate package in the pocketbook.
He went to the room of the murder to find Wilson there “sweating” Macondray. The broker was bent over a table, sobbing. The intermittent, hysterical cries of the mother, hoarser and fainter as exhaustion came upon her, still punctuated the air. Wilson was reading a letter. He passed it to Lanagan.
Lanagan read, then, a startling few lines written by Miss Hemingway the day before to Macondray, breaking their engagement with the single explanation: I love another. You surely could not want to marry a woman who had discovered she loved another.
Lanagan passed the letter back. He was anxious to make a microscopic examination of the hair, but he wanted also to put Macondray through a mill. He signalled Wilson to “jam,” and the detective touched Macondray on the shoulder.
“Get together,” he said brusquely. “We want you to answer a few questions.”
“We aren’t getting any place in this fashion,” added Lanagan curtly.
“Tell me, Macondray, when did you get that letter?”
Macondray straightened up, wiping his eyes.
“This afternoon at 5 o’clock,” he said.