THE MAN WHO DIED
War, and slung out at me a lot of stuff about imaginary pals. Paddock couldn't learn to call me "sir", but he 'sirred' Scudder as if his life depended on it.
I left him with the newspaper and a box of cigars, and went down to the city till luncheon. When I got back the lift-man had a weighty face.
"Nawsty business 'ere this morning, sir. Gent in No. 15 been and shot 'isself. They've just took 'im to the mortuary. The police are up there now."
I ascended to No. 15, and found a couple of bobbies and an inspector busy making an examination. I asked a few idiotic questions, and they soon kicked me out. Then I found the man that had valeted Scudder, and pumped him, but I could see he suspected nothing.
He was a whining fellow with a churchyard face, and half a crown went far to console him.
I attended the inquest next day. A partner of some publishing firm gave evidence
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