“I couldn’t learn much else—”
“You’ve learned enough.”
“—except that when he was stricken his wife’s first thought seemed to be to get a message to some mysterious man, who responded in person, had a short talk with the wife, and then disappeared. A neighbor who had come in was somewhat impressed by this, because she called him ‘Elmer,’ which was her husband’s name.”
“What!” cried Murray, startled out of his usual imperturbability by the evidence thus unexpectedly accumulating. Then, more calmly, “Harry, you didn’t get the address to which she sent, did you?”
“The messenger,” said Harry, proud of his success, “was a neighbor’s boy. I found him. Here is the address.”
Murray took the slip of paper, looked at the address, and then sent for the company’s physician.
“We’ll make identification sure,” he said, “for we both know the man, and we’ll take an officer and a warrant along with us.”
Elmer Harkness was sitting on his trunk, waiting for an expressman, when the party appeared at the door of his room in a little out-of-the-way boarding-house.
“I thought you were dead,” said Murray.
“I wish I was,” said Harkness. He had almost fainted at the first sight of Murray, but had recovered himself quickly, and, having once decided that the case was hopeless, he resigned himself to the inevitable and spoke with a frank carelessness that had been entirely lacking when he was playing a part and trying to stick to the details of a prepared story.