"
Gresham was silent for a moment, then swore softly.
"My God, Jeff! This is going to raise all kinds of hell!" He was silent
for a moment. "Look here, can you see me, at my home, about two thirty
this afternoon? I want to talk to you about this."
Rand smiled happily. This looked like what he had been angling for. Maybe
Arnold Rivers hadn't died in vain, after all.
"Why, yes; I can make it," he replied.
"Good. See you there, then."
Rand assured him that he would be on hand. When he returned to his table,
he found his lunch waiting for him. He sat down and ate with a good
appetite. After finishing, he had another drink, and sat sipping it
slowly and smoking his pipe; going over the story Gladys Fleming had told
him, and the gossip he had gotten from Carter Tipton, and the other
statements which had been made to him by different people about the death
of Lane Fleming, and the conclusions he had reached about the theft of
the pistols, and the killing of Arnold Rivers; sorting out the inferences
from the descriptions, and the descriptive statements of others from the
things he himself had observed. When his glass was empty and his pipe
burned out, he left a tip beside the ashtray, paid his check and went
out.
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