"You remember Tom Langley in our class at the
university? Well, read that."
I laid down my safety razor and took the message. Tom had not
spared words, and I could see at a glance at the mere length of
the thing that it must be important. It was from Camp Hang-out in
the Adirondacks.
"Dear old K.," it began, regardless of expense, "can you arrange
to come up here by next train after you receive this? Uncle Lewis
is dead. Most mysterious. Last night after we retired noticed
peculiar odour about house. Didn't pay much attention. This
morning found him lying on floor of living-room, head and chest
literally burned to ashes, but lower part of body and arms
untouched. Room shows no evidence of fire, but full of sort of
oily soot. Otherwise nothing unusual. On table near body siphon
of seltzer, bottle of imported limes, and glass for rickeys. Have
removed body, but am keeping room exactly as found until you
arrive. Bring Jameson. Wire if you cannot come, but make every
effort and spare no expense. Anxiously, Tom Langley."
Craig was impatiently looking at his watch as I hastily ran
through the letter.
"Hurry, Walter," he exclaimed. "We can just catch the Empire
State. Never mind shaving--we'll have a stopover at Utica to wait
for the Montreal express.
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