Friendship no longer existed for him; the town was a desert without an
oasis where he might reclaim some of the things he had lost. Memories
he had treasured gave place to bitter ones. His own townfolk, of all
people, were his readiest enemies, and his loneliness clutched him
tighter, until the air itself seemed thick and difficult to breathe.
For the time Derwent Conniston was utterly submerged in the
overwhelming yearnings of John Keith.
He dropped into a dimly lighted shop to purchase a box of cigars. It
was deserted except for the proprietor. His elbow bumped into a
telephone. He would call up Wallie and tell him to have a good fire
waiting for him, and in the company of that fire he would do a lot of
thinking before getting into communication with McDowell.
It was not Wallie who answered him, and he was about to apologize for
getting the wrong number when the voice at the other end asked,
"Is that you, Conniston?"
It was McDowell. The discovery gave him a distinct shock. What could
the Inspector be doing up at the Shack in his absence? Besides, there
was an imperative demand in the question that shot at him over the
wire. McDowell had half shouted it.
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