“I can’t, for the life of me, see what connection the death of this poor street hawker has with the strange events of the immediate past.”
“Remain patient. Let us watch the blustering inquiries of the police,” he laughed. “They’ll make a great fuss, but will find out nothing. The author of this crime is far too wary.”
“But this man Slade?” I said. “Of late your inquiries have always been of him. What is his connection with the affair?”
“Ah, that we have yet to discover. He may have no connection, for aught I know. It is mere supposition, based upon a logical conclusion.”
“What motive had you in meeting this man here to-night?” I inquired, hoping to gather some tangible clue to the reason of his erratic movements.
“Ah! that’s just the point,” he responded. “If this poor fellow had lived he would have revealed to me a secret—we should have known the truth!”
“The truth!” I gasped. “Then at the very moment when he intended to confess to you he has been struck down.”
“Yes. His lips have been sealed by his enemy—and yours. Both are identical,” he replied, and his lips snapped together in that peculiar manner that was his habit. I knew it was useless to question him further.
Indeed, at that moment heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairs, and two constables, conducted by the shuffling old man, appeared upon the scene.
“We have sent for you,” Ambler explained. “This man is dead—died suddenly, we believe.”