“Didn’t he say anything else you could understand?” I asked.
“He said something about the grave giving up its dead.”
Mr. Jamieson was going through the old man’s pockets, and Gertrude was composing his arms, folding them across his white shirt-bosom, always so spotless.
Mr. Jamieson looked up at me.
“What was that you said to me, Miss Innes, about the murder at the house being a beginning and not an end? By jove, I believe you were right!”
In the course of his investigations the detective had come to the inner pocket of the dead butler’s black coat. Here he found some things that interested him. One was a small flat key, with a red cord tied to it, and the other was a bit of white paper, on which was written something in Thomas’ cramped hand. Mr. Jamieson read it: then he gave it to me. It was an address in fresh ink—
LUCIEN WALLACE, 14 Elm Street, Richfield.
As the card went around, I think both the detective and I watched for any possible effect it might have, but, beyond perplexity, there seemed to be none.
“Richfield!” Gertrude exclaimed. “Why, Elm Street is the main street; don’t you remember, Halsey?”
“Lucien Wallace!” Halsey said. “That is the child Stewart spoke of at the inquest.”