"That's about the size of it. But the whole thing was so vague that I couldn't get at the pith of it. Anchor would tell me nothing until he came back with the papers at eight. All he said when we shook hands at the door was 'Tamaroo--'"
"Well, go on. Tamaroo what?"
"He didn't get any further," said Jarman, "for at that moment he was shot."
"Shot! In the open street?"
"It was a quiet side street, and, being about meal-time, there was no one about. Also it was almost dark. The man who shot Anchor must have been concealed in a corner close at hand. I turned, and saw him cutting along the street. I followed, calling for the police. But he bunked into a crowded street, and I lost him. I went up to a policeman and made him come back with me. I had been away for fifteen minutes on the chase. Anchor was still lying before my door, but in addition to the shot wound there was a knife in his heart. In this instance Frank, the knife was left in the wound. It was a brand-new bowie, and nothing could be made of it in the way of evidence."
"What happened then?"
"Well, at first I was thought to be guilty, but I soon cleared my character. Anchor was buried, and I never saw nor heard of Mrs. Anchor, nor Sakers again."
"What about the papers?"
"I never heard anything of them either. But it appeared that when Anchor was seeing me a negro came to his lodgings to wait for him. As he didn't turn up the negro skipped. I fancied he might have been an emissary of Mrs. Anchor's to steal those papers. But none were found."
"And who killed Anchor?"