Chapter VII.—The Passing YearsShortly after half-past eight the next morning, Inspector Carter was busy writing in his private office in Scotland Yard, when his colleague, Inspector Stone, walked unceremoniously into the room and with a deep sigh lowered his huge body into an armchair.
“Was chasing a woman all yesterday,” he grunted, “and I didn't get any proper meals. I always feel upset the next day.”
“Then why not leave women alone for a change?” commented Carter, looking up from his writing. “Your gross body can have no possible interest for anyone now, except in the depraved way we are all apt to regard a monstrosity.”
Stone ignored the insult. “I know for certain now,” he remarked carelessly, “which of those pretty creatures up at Stratford St. Mary shot that man, and it is now al
