“Look for yourself,” the detective said. “He expired about noon.”
Ash moved forward, and raising the handkerchief with trembling fingers, gazed upon the cold, set face of the man whom he had for years served so faithfully and well.
“What can you tell us regarding the affair?” asked the detective, with his dark eyes set full upon the agitated man.
“Nothing, sir. I know nothing,” he answered.
“Explain what your master was doing when you left, and why you went out.”
“About eleven o’clock, when I was polishing his boots in the kitchen, he called me,” answered the man, without hesitation. “He gave me a note, and told me to go to the departure platform of King’s Cross Station, and wait under the clock there for a youngish lady, who would wear a bunch of white flowers in her breast. I was to ask her if she expected him, and if so, to give her the letter. I took a cab there, waited at the spot he indicated for two whole hours, but saw no one answering the description; therefore I returned.”
“And the note?” asked the officer.
“Here it is,” answered Ash, placing his hand in his coat-pocket, and producing a letter.
The detective took it eagerly.
“It is not addressed,” he remarked in surprise. Then, tearing it open, he took out the single sheet of note-paper.