Fanshaw scribbled a note on a piece of yellow paper and left it on the desk:
Wenny, you little debauchee, where are you hiding yourself? Come over at tea time. F.
In the hall outside he found Herb Roscoe shaking the water off an oilskin slicker.
"How do you do? Have you seen Wendell about anywhere recently?"
"No, I haven't seen him in the last couple of days.... I don't quite know what he's up to these days; looks like to me he was in love or somethin', he's been actin' so queer." Herb Roscoe laughed and gave the slicker a final shake.
Fanshaw's face stiffened.
"O, I don't think it's that," he said coldly, nodded, and went down the steps.
While he was crossing the little triangle of grass in front of the seated statue of John Harvard, Fanshaw stopped a moment to sniff the moist air that for the first time that season smelt of earth and gardens. The rain had stopped, and there were breaks of blue in the brightening sky. A grimyfaced boy ran by calling an extra. Fanshaw was turning away, so as not to see the great blocks of print, when his eye caught the headline:
BAFFLING HARVARD MURDER MYSTERY
Body of Harvard Graduate Student
Fanshaw grabbed the boy's shoulder.