die from the crushed skull,” he said tersely. “That accident came afterward. He was killed by an unknown method. He was lured to death in the heart of civilization!”

“An unknown method?”

“Fact! Had the coroner of Poughkeepsie on the wire not an hour ago. A surgeon from Plattsburg happened to assist at the autopsy. It was he who detected the condition of the lungs. Also, Stephney’s face was greenish-black.”

Fay backed away and allowed Sir Arthur’s hand to drop. His eyes glazed with speculation. They hardened.

“You have other facts?” he asked.

“Little more! Stephney was last seen alive getting into a gray taxi which disappeared soon afterward. He was headed for this hotel. I sat up until three o’clock waiting for him.”

“Who else knew he was coming to New York?”

“The Washington Embassy.”

“Who knew it in London?”

“Downing Street.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“American crooks.”

“Everybody blames them—for everything.”

Sir Arthur frowned. “I’ve given you the case—on account of Mr. Mott’s interest in ex-convicts and the Gray Brotherhood.”

“Oh, I’ll take it. I’ll jump! I want all the facts you can allow me to have.”

“I’ve given you everything. The body found at Poughkeepsie on top of the goods-train was Stephney’s. There’s no doubt of that. He was first identified by the tailor’s name in his pockets—Concre, of London, I think. We’ve a solicitor up there who made a complete identification.”

“Did Stephney ever visit New York before?”

“Once, two years ago—just after the end of the war.”

“Would he know any women here?”

 Prev. P 3/24 next