The box had gone, but in the right-hand pocket his
fingers closed on a long, narrow envelope, made of stiff linen paper,
which somehow seemed unfamiliar. He drew it out, and examined it,
standing in front of a well-lighted shop window.
Then he whistled with sheer amazement, as well he might. The envelope
held a marriage license for two people named Jean de Courtois and
Hermione Beauregard Grandison. . . . In a word, he was wearing the
dead man's overcoat, and the fearsome conviction leaped to his brain
that the dead man must be Jean de Courtois.
CHAPTER II
EIGHT O'CLOCK
From one aspect, Curtis's sense of dread and horror was merely
altruistic, the natural welling forth of the springs of human
sentiment. If the man now lying stark and lifeless in that dreary
official bureau had in truth been hurrying on his way to a marriage
feast, then, indeed, tragedy had assumed its grimmest aspect that night
in New York. But, beyond an enforced personal contact with a ghastly
crime, Curtis had no vital interest in its victim, and it should have
occurred to him, as a law-abiding citizen, that his instant duty was to
communicate this new discovery to the authorities. Nay more, such
definite information would help the police materially in their pursuit
of the murderers.
Pages:
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34