CHAPTER VIIIConcerning One Titus Fenwick
When I came back upstairs, 7 or 8 minutes later, mopping my brow from being inside that booth, a sheet of paper in my hands covered with pot-hooks, the man who had installed that demoniacal glass-enclosed coffin was sitting peevishly at the table, drumming with his fingertips.
I sat down. Passed the paper over to him. And grinned as he grumpily surveyed the marks I had on it.
“Well—get anything?” he asked. “I don’t read hentracks, you know.” And shoved me back my paper.
“Yes,” I told him, taking up the paper. “I called my friend, Aldington. When he knew just what kind of information I wanted, he put me on at once to the Inspector of Gambling. A chap named Frazer. The minute I gave him the name Fenwick—Titus, you said the first name was, didn’t y
