The address was printed, not written, in a large, strong hand, with a stub pen. I did not, at the time, notice the loss of certain papers which had been in the breast pocket. I am rather absent-minded, and it was not until the night after the third sitting that they were recalled to my mind.
At something after eleven Herbert Robinson called me up at my office. He was at Sperry’s house, Sperry having been his physician during his recent illness.
“I say, Horace, this is Herbert.”
“Yes. How are you?”
“Doing well, Sperry says. I’m at his place now. I’m speaking for him. He’s got a patient.”
“Yes.”
“You were here last night, he says.” Herbert has a circumlocutory manner over the phone which irritates me. He begins slowly and does not know how to stop. Talk with him drags on endlessly.
“Well, I admit it,” I snapped. “It’s not a secret.”
He lowered his voice. “Do you happen to have noticed a walking-stick in the library when you were here?”
“Which walking-stick?”