The bed, I noticed, was set so that the eyes of any one lying in it would be upon that door.
What secret could be concealed there? What had the dead man suspected? Ay, what indeed?
Chapter Twenty Three.
“A Foreigner.”
I remained a long time attending to my damaged finger—which in reality had been injured a week before—at the same time thoroughly investigating the missing man’s apartment. Except for the cupboard, secured so mysteriously by those combination locks, there was nothing extraordinary about it. The outlook was pleasant across the wide undulating park, and the chairs with soft cushions and couch showed plainly that Harvey Shaw loved to take his ease.
In no hurry to depart, I chatted affably to Mrs Howard, wandering about the big, old-fashioned home, into regions I had never been before.
“Poor Mr Nicholson used to stay here sometimes, didn’t he?” I inquired presently, in a casual way.
“Oh yes, sir, the master used to delight in having the poor young gentleman here, sir. He used to have the blue room, nearly opposite Mr Shaw’s—the one which looks out over the front drive. Poor Mr Nicholson! We all liked him so much. Wasn’t it sad, sir?”