He was a whining fellow with a churchyard face, and half-
a-crown went far to console him.
I attended the inquest next day. A partner of some publishing firm
gave evidence that the deceased had brought him wood-pulp propositions,
and had been, he believed, an agent of an American business.
The jury found it a case of suicide while of unsound mind, and the few
effects were handed over to the American Consul to deal with. I gave
Scudder a full account of the affair, and it interested him greatly. He
said he wished he could have attended the inquest, for he reckoned it
would be about as spicy as to read one's own obituary notice.
The first two days he stayed with me in that back room he was
very peaceful. He read and smoked a bit, and made a heap of
jottings in a note-book, and every night we had a game of chess, at
which he beat me hollow. I think he was nursing his nerves back to
health, for he had had a pretty trying time. But on the third day I
could see he was beginning to get restless. He fixed up a list of the
days till June 15th, and ticked each off with a red pencil, making
remarks in shorthand against them. I would find him sunk in a
brown study, with his sharp eyes abstracted, and after those spells
of meditation he was apt to be very despondent.
Then I could see that he began to get edgy again. He listened for
little noises, and was always asking me if Paddock could be trusted.
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