CHAPTER IV
The Store on Monday Night
NOT until the regular click-click of the wheels told me that we were well under way did I open my mind to Godfrey; then I spoke with what I deemed a necessary frankness.
“My dear Godfrey,” I began, “I’ve watched you all day, smelling bottles, examining scratches, trying to read faint ink-marks on a blotter, puzzling over a broken cane, and doing various other eccentric things from which you seemed to draw conclusions utterly invisible to me. I’ve heard you assure both Drysdale and Miss Croydon that the former will be cleared of suspicion at to-morrow’s inquest, and that the real culprit will be pointed out. You’ll pardon me if I confess to some curiosity as to how all this is to be accomplished.”
“Did you see her face as she came through that door, Lester?” he asked, staring absently at the seat in front of us. “I tell you, it warmed the heart of even an old reprobate like me! And to think that we did it!” he added. “To think that we did it!”
“You did it,” I corrected. “I was in the chorus to-day—you had the centre of the stage.”
“But you don’t mind, Lester? I couldn’t help it, you know.”
“Of course you couldn’t—that’s where you belong.
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