Without comment I handed it back to him. It occurred to me that it might be best to keep my knowledge to myself, for by so doing I might perchance discover a clue.
That evening, having resolved to remain and watch the inquest on the morrow, I scribbled a hasty line to Bob, and then spent the hour after dinner in company with Bullen and Rowling in the bar parlour of a neighbouring public-house.
At the inquest held in the billiard-room at Whitton next morning, reporters were present in dozens, and the “note” taken by all was verbatim, for being the dead season, such a mystery came as a welcome “scoop” to those journals whose only claims to notoriety are the sensationalism of their contents bills and their remarkable “cross-heads.”
The same evening I returned to Rowan Road, where I found Bob in his den, stretched out lazily in his cane deck-chair, smoking his big pipe with a whisky-and-soda at his elbow.
“Hullo, old chap!” he cried, jumping up as I entered. “Back again, eh? And with a murder case on hand, too?”
“Yes,” I responded, sinking into a chair, wearied and tired out. “Most extraordinary, isn’t it?”
Then at his request, I gave him a minute and detailed account of all that had occurred, and placed in his hands the hideous post-mortem photograph.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think of it?”
“Think of it?” he said. “Why, the mystery becomes more involved than ever. You are certain that this photograph is of her?”
“Absolutely certain.”