It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. In a sense I don’t care. “Rubbish!” he answered. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. "My heart," rejoined Thames, firmly; "which now tells me I am in the presence of his murderer.
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