"What kind of books?"
"Novels, sir--yellow novels, in a foreign tongue. Here, sir, is the rosewood bookcase. He also wrote a great deal, but what I don't know. I thought he had ideas of becoming a writing person himself."
Blair opened the bookcase, and one by one examined a dozen or so of French novels ranged on the lower shelf. They were all by good authors, the usual paper-covered cheap editions--nothing strange about them. No name was written in any one of them. He shut up the bookcase with a look of disappointment.
"Was your lodger a Frenchman?" he asked.
"Lor', sir, I dunno! He talked English with his fingers. I've seen him reading the newspapers."
"He did not look like a foreigner," remarked the Rector.
"Ah! I quite forgot you knew the man, Mr. Phelps. Can you describe his looks?"
"He was not very tall, had long white hair and a beard, ruddy cheeks, and dark eyes. He was usually dressed in a gray suit, and walked with a stout stick."
"Gout in his feet," put in Mrs. Marry, not at all pleased at being left out in the cold. "He wore cloth boots for his gout--walked very badly, did Mr. Brown."
"Strange!" murmured Blair, again looking round the room. "How could an old man helpless through gout in the feet carry off a dead body? Humph!"