Val descended the half a dozen steps that led to the store and turned the handle. It opened easily, and he let himself into the room—into the center of a group of five or six people, including two policemen.
“Hello, what’s up?” he asked, looking around for the bookseller. He did not see him, hut a personage of apparent importance stepped forward. They inspected each other closely, slowly.
“You’re Mr. Valentine Morley,” said the other.
Val looked at his feet. They were of a good, generous size. They were capable of supporting his great bulk in comfort, if not in style. From the official’s feet he looked up again to his face.
“I am, officer,” he replied. “Anything wrong here?”
The officer nodded his head. “Decidedly,” he replied, tersely. “I am Detective Sergeant Connolly,” he stated, showing a gold badge as he spoke. Val nodded in acknowledgment, waiting.
“Matthew Masterson is dead,” said the sergeant.
“Mat Masterson—is—dead!” repeated Val mechanically. He did not comprehend fully at first, it was too sudden. “Mat Masterson—is dead!” he repeated again, and Sergeant Connolly nodded his head briefly. There was a catch in Val’s voice as he repeated the second time—he had loved the lonely old man. And now he was gone. It was a pity.
“How⸺” he commenced.
“He was murdered last night,” said Sergeant Connolly drily.
