"He's been murdered here, he and the
Salvation Army girl who was to come this morning for her cheque."
Laura turned away, half dazed.
"I'd have trusted Ross with my life," Quest continued, "but he must have
been alone in the house when the girl came. Do you suppose it was the
usual sort of trouble?"
Inspector French stooped down and picked up the paper-weight. Across it
was stamped the name of Sanford Quest.
"This yours, Quest?"
"Of course it is," Quest answered. "Everything in the room is mine."
"The girl would fight to defend herself," the Inspector remarked slowly,
"but she could never strike a man such a blow as your valet died from."
Once more he stooped and picked up a small clock. It had stopped at
eleven-fifteen. He looked at it thoughtfully.
"Quest," he said, "I'll have to ask you a question."
"Why not?" Quest replied, looking quickly up.
"Where were you at eleven-fifteen?"
"On tower Number 10 of the New York Central, scrapping for my life," Quest
answered grimly. "I've reason to remember it."
Something in the Inspector's steady gaze seemed to inspire the
criminologist suddenly with a new idea. He came a step forward, a little
frown upon his forehead.
"Say, French," he exclaimed, "you don't--you don't suspect me of this?"
French was unmoved. He looked Quest in the eyes.
"I don't know," he said.
CHAPTER VI
ON THE RACK
1.
For the moment a new element had been introduced into the horror of the
little tableau.
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