"I am going to Weybridge this morning," he said shortly, holding the
"flimsy" out to me. "Shall you come?"
I took the paper from him, and read:
"Come, for God's sake! F. C. is dead. You will
understand.--BRODRIBB."
I handed him back the telegram, too much shocked for a moment to speak.
The whole dreadful tragedy summed up in that curt message rose before me
in an instant, and a wave of deep pity swept over me at this miserable
end to the sad, empty life.
"What an awful thing, Thorndyke!" I exclaimed at length. "To be killed
by a mere grotesque delusion."
"Do you think so?" he asked dryly. "Well, we shall see; but you will
come?"
"Yes," I replied; and as he retired, I proceeded hurriedly to finish
dressing.
Half an hour later, as we rose from a rapid breakfast, Polton came into
the room, carrying a small roll-up case of tools and a bunch of skeleton
keys.
"Will you have them in a bag, sir?" he asked.
"No," replied Thorndyke; "in my overcoat pocket. Oh, and here is a note,
Polton, which I want you to take round to Scotland Yard. It is to the
Assistant Commissioner, and you are to make sure that it is in the right
hands before you leave.
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