CHAPTER EIGHTAby
Gamadge and Gray exchanged a wave of the hand; Gamadge went on down the stairs, and Aby, with a dog’s sixth sense concerning walks, humped after him like a measuring worm. Norah, alerted by some house bell, came up from the basement and brought him his hat and coat; but Miss Austen seemed to be taking her time. The three of them waited.
“The murderer speaks, does he?” thought Gamadge. “This one, if he is one, talks a lot too much. Can’t understand him or any of it, except that last play with the book of crimes. He didn’t much like me for that, Aby old boy. You were a godsend. What an i***t he is, overplaying his hand like that. But I have to remember that so far as he knows I’m hearing all I know from him.”
Miss Austen came down at last, smartly got up for the street. S
