From his wallet he took a second newspaper cutting, smaller than the first, and gummed to a sheet of club notepaper. Harley took it and read as follows:
“Mr. De Lana, a well-known member of the Stock Exchange, who met with a serious accident recently, is still in a precarious condition.”
The puzzled look on Harley's face grew more acute, and the Major watched him with an expression which I can only describe as one of fierce enjoyment.
“You're thinkin' I'm a damned old fool, ain't you?” he shouted suddenly.
“Scarcely that,” said Harley, smiling slightly, “but the significance of these paragraphs is not apparent, I must confess. The man Bampton would not appear to be an interesting character, and since no great damage has been done, his drunken frolic hardly comes within my sphere. Of Mr. De Lana, of the Stock Exchange, I never heard, unless he happens to be a member of the firm of De Lana and Day?”
“He's not a member of that firm, sir,” shouted the Major. “He was, up to six o'clock this evenin'.”
“What do you mean exactly?” inquired Harley, and the tone of his voice suggested that he was beginning to entertain doubts of the Major's sanity or sobriety; then:
“He's dead!” declared the latter. “Dead as the Begum of Bangalore! He died at six o'clock. I've just spoken to his widow on the telephone.”
I suppose I must have been staring very hard at the speaker, and certainly Harley was doing so, for suddenly directing his fierce gaze toward me:
“You're completely treed, sir, and so's your friend!” shouted Major Ragstaff.