My companion led the way upstairs to a private room,
where a table stood ready set for us. The oysters appeared before we
were fairly seated.
"You see," he smiled, "I made bold to believe that you'd come with me,
and so had the dinner already ordered."
I looked at him without replying. I was completely in the dark. Could
this be the writer of the mysterious note? But what could his object
be? Above all, why should he so expose himself? He smiled again, as he
caught my glance.
"Of course you're puzzled," he said. "Well, I'll make a clean breast
of the matter at once. I wanted to talk with you about this Holladay
case, and I decided that a dinner at the Studio would be just the
ticket."
I nodded. The soup was a thing to marvel at.
"You were right," I assented. "The idea was a stroke of genius."
"I knew you'd think so. You see, since this morning, I've been making
rather a study of you. That coup of yours at the coroner's court this
afternoon was admirable--one of the best things I ever saw."
I bowed my acknowledgments.
"You were there, then?" I asked.
"Oh, yes; I couldn't afford to miss it."
"The color-blind theory was a simple one."
"So simple that it never occurred to anyone else. I think we're too
apt to overlook the simple explanations, which are, after all, nearly
always the true ones.
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