Darwen read it thoughtfully and slowly, then he whistled softly. "Poor old Donovan," he said. He seemed lost in thought for a moment or so, then he repeated, "Poor old Donovan. And only yesterday he got us our rises, Carstairs."
"What do you make of it?" Carstairs was watching him closely.
"Oh, murder, of course. Singular resemblance to that chap who was killed over at your place."
"That's what struck me." He caught just a quick glance from Darwen's dark, penetrating eyes.
"There's no doubt, of course, between ourselves, that Donovan got entangled in his own web, some of the particularly sharp tools he employed have eventually cut him." He looked Carstairs steadily in the eyes as he spoke.
"Ye—es, I suppose that's it. This is a damn funny place. I don't like it a bit."
"You're right, old chap. It is funny. The world's funny. Old Donovan lived down among the docks with sailors and foreigners; all sorts, Lascars, Chinamen, and niggers frequented his pub; besides, he was a bookmaker. God only knows how he met his end. Poor devil!"
"He's not much loss to civilization, that's a certainty, but it seems to come rather near home, somehow."
"Don't let that worry you, old chap. How about this test?"
"Well, the engine's running, but she won't do her load. That little fool from the contractors calmly opened the emergency valve, letting high pressure steam into the low pressure cylinder, when I wasn't looking. 'How's that?' he said, triumphantly. Of course I knew what he'd done at once."