"Changed his mind, I suppose. He evidently did it on the spur of the moment. But here we are, at last."
They went into the hotel, and were shown into the late Mrs. Verschoyle's room by the landlady, who had heard of her lodger's death, and was much scared thereat.
"I knew she'd break a blood-vessel," she said, smoothing her black silk dress; "the rages she got into were awful. They won't bring the corpse here, I hope?"
"No," replied Ronald, "it has been taken to Sir Mark Trevor's town house."
"Didn't know he had one," said Foster; "he stops at the Langham."
"Oh, yes; he dislikes his town house immensely, and being a student of human nature, likes the life of an hotel. I don't think he's far wrong, myself."
They went to Mrs. Verschoyle's room and hunted everywhere for the paper so much required, but in vain. Ransacked her desk, looked through her trunks, but without any satisfactory result.
"Perhaps she's left it about for greater safety," said Foster, referring to Poe's queer story of the "Purloined Letter."
The landlady was called up and questioned, but denied ever seeing the paper.
"Perhaps she had it with her," she suggested, as the three gentlemen looked blankly at one another.