“If he doesn’t recognize the Integer Vitae,” said Average Jones in a swift aside to Bertram, “he certainly wouldn’t know the more obscure Latin of the late Mr. Hadrian.”
“One more question, Mr. Robinson. Is there, in all your acquaintance, any person who never goes out without an attendant? Take time to think, now.”
“Why—why—why,” stuttered the appalled subject of this examination, and fell into silence. From the depths of the silence he presently exhumed the following: “I did have a paralytic cousin who always went out in a wheeled chair. But she’s dead.”
“And there’s no one else?”
“No. I’m quite sure.”
“That’s all. Good-by.”
“Thank Heaven! Good-by.”
“What was that about an attendant?” inquired Bertram, as his friend replaced the receiver.
“Oh, I’ve just a hunch that the sender of those messages doesn’t go out unaccompanied.”
“Insane? Or semi-insane? It does rather look like delusional paranoia.”