“You believe, then, that the real murderer lives in Dalton?”
“Yes, or some one associated with him. The murder was done by parties who knew something of my uncle, and who had some secret purpose to serve—else why the anxiety to obtain that fragment of paper bearing the finishing words to something that he had written?”
“It might have been for fear it would furnish a clew to detection.”
“No—the only way in which it could be used in that way would be to match it to the larger paper from which it was torn, and that could easily be destroyed.”
“True; but it is strange. The words ‘seven o’clock’ do not amount to much. They probably have only a casual meaning.”
“Perhaps; but I must caution you not to repeat them where they will be heard. Leonard said in his note, as I told you, that they would give the murderer all the information he wanted.”
“Yes; I had forgotten that. But it is utterly inexplicable.”
“It is, indeed.”
“Let me see,” said Mr. Duncan. “Have you many acquaintances here in New York?”
“I have none at all. Most of my life has been spent across the ocean, except a few years, when I was a good deal younger than I am now; and during the three days I was here, previous to going to Dalton, I made no acquaintances, except in your own family. I do not think that I was even in the store here often enough for the clerks to know me. The porter mistook me for one of your traveling agents.”