plain, unmistakable evidence of at least four savage blows, any one of them of sufficient force to cause almost instantaneous death: the intent of the assailant was obvious.
"Not just the theft of that manuscript," mused Wedgwood, as he journeyed westward. "That was wanted, sure enough, but whoever wanted it—and got it!—wanted more: to silence Wraypoole. So it comes to this, as I figure it:—Wraypoole knew something—a secret—evidently a mighty important one. He put it, or something about it, on paper—that was the manuscript. Somebody affected by the secret knew of Wraypoole's possession of it, and of the manuscript. That somebody killed Wraypoole, not merely to get the manuscript but to prevent him from letting the secret out. Who is that somebody? Man?—or woman? However, to begin with—who was Wraypoole?"
Wedgwood was hoping to find that out at the end of his brief journey. Porteous Road was easily located—a short street running between St. Mary's Terrace and the Harrow Road. Although the daylight had gone long since and there was nothing but a feeble gas-lamp here and there Wedgwood sized up the character of the street before he had walked many yards along it; it was one of those streets of which, as of some people, you can safely say
