"I'll wager I can tell you just why you made that
remark, Craig," I ventured. "You're reading up on that
Wainwright-Templeton affair."
"You are on the road to becoming a detective yourself, Walter,"
he answered with a touch of sarcasm. "Your ability to add two
units to two other units and obtain four units is almost worthy
of Inspector O'Connor. You are right and within a quarter of an
hour the district attorney of Westchester County will be here. He
telephoned me this afternoon and sent an assistant with this mass
of dope. I suppose he'll want it back," he added, fishing the
newspapers out of the basket again. "But, with all due respect to
your profession, I'll say that no one would ever get on speaking
terms with the solution of this case if he had to depend solely
on the newspaper writers."
"No?" I queried, rather nettled at his tone.
"No," he repeated emphatically. "Here one of the most popular
girls in the fashionable suburb of Williston, and one of the
leading younger members of the bar in New York, engaged to be
married, are found dead in the library of the girl's home the day
before the ceremony. And now, a week later, no one knows whether
it was an accident due to the fumes from the antique
charcoal-brazier, or whether it was a double suicide, or suicide
and murder, or a double murder, or--or--why, the experts haven't
even been able to agree on whether they have discovered poison or
not," he continued, growing as excited as the city editor did
over my first attempt as a cub reporter.
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