“Yes, but he is—and—and he sees a Chinaman's head.”
“Where?”
“A-ah,” I said, “that is the touch—a severed head at his feet!”
Her dismay was pleasing. I had aroused her. She choked over her soup.
“Tell me more!” she gasped.
“Certainly,” I said. “The—the way it got there—”
What an infernal thing a mystery-story is! How should I know how it got there! Isn't the effect enough? Some day I shall write a story entirely composed of effects.
As I drew our Ford up at our door, my wife suddenly turned to me.
“It isn't late, George, and Sam Lee is just down at the corner. He should have brought the laundry this afternoon. I entirely forgot about it, and to-morrow's Sunday.”
“But surely they close up.”