“Because his mind has become unhinged. He was always excitable and erratic, and his weeks of jealous wrath, culminating in the shock of the sudden tragedy, and the realization that he had brought it all on himself, were too much for him. He was a broker and one of the most prominent financiers in the city, but with the divorce fiasco and the death of Mrs. Armstrong, he began to brood. He shunned the friends who were left to him, neglected his business and ultimately failed. Sinking lower and lower in the scale of things, he finally disappeared from Illington. You can understand now why I thought it best when you told me of the conversation you had overheard in the library here a few hours before your father’s death, and of the mention of Herbert 124 Armstrong’s name, to trace him and find out if it was he who had come in the heart of the night and attempted to blackmail Mr. Lawton.”
“I understand. That was why you wanted me to hear his voice yesterday and see if I recognized it. But it was not at all like that of the man in the library on the night of my father’s death. And do you know, Mr. Blaine”––she leaned forward and spoke in still lower tones––“when I recall that voice, it seems to me, sometimes, that I have heard it before. There was a certain timbre in it which was oddly familiar. It is as if some one I knew had spoken, but in tones disguised by rage and passion. I shall recognize that voice when I hear it again, if it holds that same note; and when I do––”
Blaine darted a swift glance at her from under narrowed brows. “But why attribute so much importance to it?” he asked. “To be sure, it may have some bearing upon our investigation, although at present I can see no connecting link. You feel, perhaps, that the violent emotions superinduced by that secret interview, added to your father’s heart-trouble, indirectly caused his death?”
Anita again sank back in her chair.
“I don’t know, Mr. Blaine. I cannot explain it, even to myself, but I feel instinctively that that interview was of greater significance than any one has considered, as yet.”
“That we must leave to the future.” The detective took her hand, and this time Anita rose and walked slowly with him toward the door. “There are matters of greater moment to be investigated now. Remember my advice. Try to be patient. Yours is the hardest task of all, to sit idly by and wait for events to shape themselves, or for me to shape them, but it must be. 125 If you can calm your nerves and obtain a few hours’ sleep you will feel your own brave self again when I report to you, as I shall do, later to-day.”
Despite his night of ceaseless work, Henry Blaine, clear-eyed and alert of brain, was seated at his desk at the stroke of nine when Suraci was ushered in––the young detective who had trailed Walter Pennold from Brooklyn to the quiet backwater where Jimmy Brunell had sought in vain for disassociation from his past shadowy environment.
“It has become necessary, through an incident which occurred yesterday, for me to change my plans,” Blaine announced. “I had intended to put you on the trail of a young crook, a relative of Pennold, but I find I must send you instead to Long Bay to look up a hotel register for me and obtain some writing paper with the engraved letter-head from that hotel. You can get a train in an hour, if you look sharp. Try to get back to-night or to-morrow morning at the latest. Find out anything you can regarding the visit there two years ago last August of Pennington Lawton and his daughter and of other guests who arrived during their stay. Here are your instructions.”
Twenty minutes’ low-voiced conversation ensued, and Suraci took his departure. He was followed almost immediately by Guy Morrow.
“What is the dope, sir?” the latter asked eagerly, as he entered. “There’s an extra out about the Hamilton disappearance. Do you think Paddington’s had a hand in that?”