“Yes. Anita and I were engaged then, and I ran out myself for the week-end.”
“I want you to run out there for me now. The hotel will be closed at this time of year, of course, but a letter which I will give you to the proprietor, who lives close at hand, will enable you to look over the register for an hour or two in private. Turn to the arrivals for August of that year, and trace the names and home addresses on each page; then bring it back to me.”
“Is it something in connection with that forged letter to Mallowe?” asked Ramon quickly.
“Perhaps,” the detective admitted. He shrugged, then added leniently, “I think, before proceeding any further with that branch of the investigation, it would be well to know who obtained the notepaper with the hotel letterhead, and if the paper itself was genuine. Bring me back some of the hotel stationery, also, that I may compare it with that used for the letter.”
A discreet knock upon the door heralded the coming of an operative, in response to Blaine’s touch upon the bell.
“There has been a slight disturbance in the outer office, sir,” he announced. “A man, who appears to be demented, insists upon seeing you. He isn’t one of the ordinary cranks, or we would have dealt with him ourselves. He says that if you will read this, you will be glad to assent to an interview with him.”
He presented a card, which Blaine read with every manifestation of surprised interest.
“Tell him I will see him in five minutes,” he said. When the operative had withdrawn, the detective turned to Ramon.
“Who do you think is waiting outside? The man who threatened Pennington Lawton’s life ten years ago, 111 the man whose name was mentioned by the unknown visitor to the library on the night Lawton met his death: Herbert Armstrong!”