His ideas were so chaotic that he felt himself to be incapable
of approaching the task presented by the pile of papers lying upon his
table.
The night was pleasantly warm and the sky cloudless. Often enough he
found himself glancing toward the opened French windows, and once he
had peered closely across into the belt of shadow below the hedge,
thinking that he had detected something which moved there. Stepping
to the window, the slinking shape had emerged into the moonlight--and
had proclaimed itself to be that of a black cat!
Yet he had been sorely tempted to act upon the advice so strangely
offered. He refrained from doing so, however, reflecting that to spend
his evenings with closed and barred shutters now that a spell of hot
weather seemed to be imminent would be insufferable. Up and down the
room he paced tirelessly, always confronted by the eternal problem.
Forcing himself at last to begin work if only as a sedative, he filled
and lighted his pipe, turned off the centre lamp and lighted the
reading lamp upon his table. He sat down to consider the papers
bearing upon the death of Eriksen. For half an hour he read on
steadily and made a number of pencil notes. Then he desisted and sat
staring straight before him.
What possible motive could there be in assassinating these people? The
case of the Grand Duke might be susceptible of explanation, but those
of Henrik Ericksen and Sir Frank Narcombe were not. Furthermore he
could perceive no links connecting the three, and no reason why they
should have engaged the attention of a common enemy.
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