Bitterly disappointed, he returned to the house, closed the door behind him. As he went into the clothes-lobby to replace the unneeded coat he was startled by the telephone bell.
He hastened to the instrument, picked up the receiver.
“Hallo!—Yes—Yes—what is it? Who are you?—the police?” He repeated the last word in a tone of bewilderment, listened.
“Yes,” he replied, “Yes—Mrs. Christine Arkwright—yes—that is my wife—yes——”
The silence of the empty hall seemed to envelop him as he listened. He interjected an impatient exclamation.
“Yes!—you found a letter and traced me—yes!—Go on!—What is it all about?”
He frowned, contorted his face as though the distant voice was not clearly audible.
“What?—what do you say?—died suddenly?—I don’t understand.—Where was this?”
He nodded as though now receiving more intelligible information.
“No—I don’t recognize the address at all! What sort of place is it?—oh, a second-rate boarding house. Well, I think there must be some mistake—what?”