IV
THE SLANTING EYES
“Do you understand, Knox?” said Harley as the cab bore us toward Hamilton Place. “Do you grasp the details of this cunning scheme?”
“On the contrary,” I replied, “I am hopelessly at sea.”
Nevertheless, I had forgotten that I was hungry in the excitement which now claimed me. For although the thread upon which these seemingly disconnected things hung was invisible to me, I recognized that Bampton, the city clerk, the bearded stranger who had made so singular a proposition to him, the white-hatted major, the dead stockbroker, and the mysterious woman whose presence in the case the clear sight of Harley had promptly detected, all were linked together by some subtle chain. I was convinced, too, that my friend held at least one end of that chain in his grip.
“In order to prepare your mind for the interview which I hope to obtain this evening,” continued Harley, “let me enlighten you upon one or two points which may seem obscure. In the first place you recognize that anyone leaning out of the window on the second floor would almost automatically rest his weight upon the iron bar which was placed there for that very purpose, since the ledge is unusually low?”
“Quite,” I replied, “and it also follows that if the bar gave way anyone thus leaning on it would be pitched into the street.”
“Your reasoning is correct.”
“But, my dear fellow,” said I, “how could such an accident have been foreseen?”
“You speak of an accident. This was no accident! One end of the bar had been filed completely through, although the file marks had been carefully concealed with rust and dirt; and the other end had been wrenched out from its socket and then replaced in such a way that anyone leaning upon the bar could not fail to be precipitated into the street!”