As we
drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that
little group on the step, the two graceful, clinging figures, the
half-opened door, the hall light shining through stained glass,
the barometer, and the bright stair-rods. It was soothing to
catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the
midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.
And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and
darker it grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of
events as I rattled on through the silent gas-lit streets. There
was the original problem: that at least was pretty clear now.
The death of Captain Morstan, the sending of the pearls, the
advertisement, the letter,--we had had light upon all those
events. They had only led us, however, to a deeper and far more
tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious plan found
among Morstan's baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto's
death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by
the murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to
the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon
the card, corresponding with those upon Captain Morstan's
chart,--here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less
singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of
ever finding the clue.
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