There was not a shred of evidence
against any one. Madame, who had seen the man upon the stairs, could
only say that he was short, and wore a black felt hat. The officer who
took down what they had to say shrugged his shoulders as he replaced the
book in his pocket. The affair would pass most certainly, he feared,
into the long list of undiscoverable crimes.
Duncombe left his name and address, and enough money for the funeral.
Then he returned to his hotel. This was the end, then, of the clue from
which he had hoped so much. Spencer's warning as to what would surely
happen to those whom he might succeed in bribing came back into his mind
with sickening insistence. In a measure he was responsible for the
girl's death. After all, what chance had he? He was fighting against
powers which, moving always in the darkness, seemed able with the most
ridiculous ease to frustrate his every move. He re-entered the hotel in
a state of complete nervous depression. For the first time he had
forebodings on his own account. What had happened to Mademoiselle
Flossie might happen so easily to himself.
A man rose quickly from the lounge in the hotel as he entered.
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