LITMIR.BIZ

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664617118

Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I

       CHAPTER II

       CHAPTER III

       CHAPTER IV

       CHAPTER V

       CHAPTER VI

       CHAPTER VII

       CHAPTER VIII

       CHAPTER IX

       CHAPTER X

       CHAPTER XI

       CHAPTER XII

       CHAPTER XIII

       CHAPTER XIV

       CHAPTER XV

       CHAPTER XVI

       CHAPTER XVII

       CHAPTER XVIII

       CHAPTER XIX

       CHAPTER XX

       CHAPTER XXI

       CHAPTER XXII

       CHAPTER XXIII

       CHAPTER XXIV

       CHAPTER XXV

       CHAPTER XXVI

       CHAPTER XXVII

       CHAPTER XXVIII

       CHAPTER XXIX

       CHAPTER XXX

       CHAPTER XXXI

       CHAPTER XXXII

       CHAPTER XXXIII

CHAPTER I

       Table of Contents

      "Hallo! Is that Hampstead Police Station?"

      "Yes. Who are you?"

      "Detective-Inspector Chippenfield of Scotland Yard. Tell Inspector Seldon

       I want him, and be quick about it."

      "Yes, sir. Hang on, sir. I'll put you through to him at once."

      Detective-Inspector Chippenfield, of Scotland Yard, waited with the receiver held to his ear. While he waited he scrutinised keenly a sheet of paper which lay on the desk in front of him. It was a flimsy, faintly-ruled sheet from a cheap writing-pad, blotted and soiled, and covered with sprawling letters which had been roughly printed at irregular intervals as though to hide the identity of the writer. But the letters formed words, and the words read:

      SIR HORACE FEWBANKS WAS MURDERED LAST NIGHT

      WHO DID IT I DONT KNOW SO IT IS NO USE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHO I AM YOU WILL FIND HIS DEAD BODY IN THE LIBRARY AT RIVERSBROOK

      HE WAS SHOT THOUGH THE HEART

      "Hallo!"

      "Is that you, Inspector Chippenfield?"

      "Yes. That you, Seldon? Have you heard anything of a murder out your way?"

      "Can't say that I have. Have you?"

      "Yes. We have information that Sir Horace Fewbanks has been murdered—shot."

      "Mr. Justice Fewbanks shot—murdered!" Inspector Seldon gave expression to his surprise in a long low whistle which travelled through the telephone. Then he added, after a moment's reflection, "There must be some mistake. He is away."

      "Away where?"

      "In Scotland. He went there for the Twelfth—when the shooting season opened."

      "Are you sure of that?"

      "Yes; he rang me up the day before he left to ask us to keep an eye on his house while he was away."

      There was a pause at the Scotland Yard end of the telephone. Inspector

       Chippenfield was evidently thinking hard.

      "We may have been hoaxed," he said at length. "But I have been ringing up his house and can get no answer. You had better send up a couple of men there at once—better still, go yourself. It is a matter which may require tactful handling. Let me know, and I'll come out immediately if there is anything wrong. Stay! How long will it take you to get up to the house?"

      "Not more than fifteen minutes—in a taxi."

      "Well, I'll ring you up at the house in half an hour. Should our information be correct see that everything is left exactly as you find it till I arrive."

      Inspector Seldon hung up the receiver of

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