He took the phial out again, for it seemed to have a strange fascination for him, and after staring at it till his hands grew moist, he took out a piece of white paper, carefully rolled it therein, and placed it in another drawer, which he had to unlock, and fastened afterwards with the greatest care.
“That bottle’s worth at least a hundred pound,” he said huskily, as he put the key in his pocket. “It will be quite a little fortune to me.
“Somebody who hated him—somebody who wanted him out of the way,” he said, as he tapped his teeth with the key. “No, I can’t think, and won’t try any more. I’m not a detective, and I don’t want to know.
“Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and who wanted him out of the way.”
In spite of his determination not to think any more of the subject, it came back persistently, and at last, to clear his brain and drive away the thoughts, he took down his hat, and determined to let the museum take care of itself for an hour, while he walked down along the beach.
He knew, as he came to this determination, that he would go straight down beneath the Fort, and look at the spot where he found the bottle; but, all the same, he felt that he must go, and, putting on his hat, he took the key out from inside of the door, and standing just inside the shop, began to put the key into the outer portion of the lock, as the thought came again more strongly than ever—
“Some one who hated him and had quarrelled with him, and wanted him out of the way.”
He was in the act of closing his door as a quick step came along the path, and as the door closed, a voice said to some one—
“How do, Edward?” and the speaker passed on with creel on back and salmon rod over his shoulder.
Wimble darted back into the museum, shut the door, and stood trembling in the middle of the place.