“Well, if you must go, au revoir,” Bob said, offering his hand. “I’m here every evening, so I hope you’ll often drop in, now you have returned to civilisation.”
“Thanks, I shall be glad to accept your hospitality until I can be re-elected a member.”
He shook hands with Demetrius, but only placed the tips of his fingers in my hand, withdrawing them as if he were touching some unclean thing.
Without wishing me good-night, he departed.
An hour afterwards I returned to the hotel in deep soliloquy, wondering what this latest development meant. What connection could Rivers have with the murder of the woman whose photograph I had in my pocket?
Why did he start on seeing the picture, and afterwards deny all knowledge of its original? Why did he eye me so suspiciously?
Was he the murderer of the dead man’s wife, the unfortunate Nell, who was found killed by an unknown hand, on the night after my return from Russia?
Deeply exercised in mind over this increased complication, I sat in my room until the small hours, then—heartily sick of it all—I sought repose.