“Arnold! Arnold!” he repeated. “Melvill Arnold—an English name. He was an Englishman, of course?”
“Certainly.”
“Arnold! Arnold!” he repeated, gazing blankly across the room. “And he was a friend of the suspect Shaw, eh?”
“I presume so.”
“Arnold!” he again repeated reflectively, as though the name recalled something to his memory. “Was he an elderly, grey-haired man who had lived a great deal in Egypt and was an expert in Egyptology eh?”
“He was.”
Tramu sprang to his feet, staring at me, utterly amazed.
“And he is dead, you say?”
“He is—he died in my presence.”
“Arnold!” he cried, turning to his colleagues. “All, yes. I remember now. I recollect—a most remarkable and mysterious mail. Dieu! what a colossal brain! What knowledge—what a staunch friend, and what a formidable enemy! And he is, alas! dead. Describe to me the circumstances in which he died, Monsieur Kemball,” he added, in a voice full of regret and sympathy.