“Read it, please.”
“It reads: ‘Jacob Moore was murdered last night. Come at once.’ It is signed by Moore’s nephew, a man named Richard Thorpe, who has lived with Moore off and on since his boyhood.”
“Who is this Moore? Is he an acquaintance of yours?”
“Oh, yes. I have been Moore’s legal adviser for something like twenty years, and am so well informed of his family affairs that this crime, if Moore has actually been murdered, at once suggests to me possibilities and complications of a decidedly serious nature.”
“And what is the service you desire of me?” asked Chief Watts gravely.
The eminent lawyer, a man close upon sixty years, hurriedly consulted his watch. It was then about nine o’clock, a clear, cold morning in November, with the mercury out of doors well below freezing.
The scene of this interview was the private office of Chief Inspector Watts, in the headquarters building, in Pemberton Square.
“I will tell you why I have called upon you, Chief Watts,” replied the lawyer. “In the light of facts already in my possession, I anticipate serious trouble from this case, if it proves to be of a nature reported.”
“Trouble in getting at the truth?”
“Precisely.”