"Or if there is
a murder committed you will be an accessory before the fact."
I intimated my disregard of the contingency. What did it matter?
Nothing in the world mattered save the recovery of the light and
meaning of my existence. My friend's name? Sebastian Pasquale,
He lived near by in the St. John's Wood Road.
"The best thing you can do, Sir Marcus," said the Inspector, "is
to get hold of Mr. Pasquale and take him with you to Scotland
Yard. Perhaps two heads will be better than one. In the
meanwhile we shall communicate with headquarters and make the
necessary inquiries in the neighbourhood."
I drove to St. John's Wood Road, and learned to my dismay that
Pasquale had given up his rooms there a week ago. All his
letters were addressed to his club in Piccadilly. I drove
thither. How has mankind contented itself for these thousands of
years with a horse as its chief means of locomotion? Oh, the
exasperation I suffered behind that magnified snail! I dashed
into the club. Mr. Pasquale had not been there all day.
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