Indeed, the room possessed an air of homely comfort, with an absence of the inartistic seldom found in seaside apartments. The windows were open and the light breeze from the sun-lit sea slowly fanned the lace curtains. On the writing-table lay a quantity of papers, mostly tradesmen's receipts—all of which the old gentleman carefully preserved—some newspapers, a tin of tobacco, and several pipes.
Beside the fire-place lay a pair of Egyptian slippers in crimson morocco, evidently the property of young Craig, while his straw hat and cane lay upon the couch, together with the fawn Burberry coat which had been one of the common objects in Cromer. Everywhere were signs of occupation. Indeed, the cushions in the easy chairs were crumpled just as if the two men had only a little while before arisen from them, while in the grate were a number of ends of those gold-tipped cigarettes without which Craig was never seen.
Upon a peg behind the door hung another old grey mackintosh belonging to old Gregory—an exact replica of which had been worn by the man who had so mysteriously met his death.
But where was old Gregory? Aye, that was the question.
With Mrs. Dean, a homely person with hair brushed tightly back, and her husband looking on, we began a thorough search of the room, as well as of the two bedrooms on the next floor. The sitting-room was investigated first of all, but in the writing-table we found nothing of interest. One of the drawers had been emptied and a mass of tinder in the grate told a significant tale.
Old Mr. Gregory had burned a lot of documents before disappearing.
Why? Were they incriminating?
Why, too, had he so suddenly disappeared? Surely he would not have done so without knowledge of his nephew's tragic death!
For a full half-hour we rummaged that room and all that was in it, but, alas, found nothing.