his name was McCallum, Henry McCallum,” began Doctor Whitcomb, “and that he came from New York. He told me he suffered from bronchitis, though I must say I saw no symptoms of it. He took one of my cabins and settled down for a stay—so I thought.”
“Yes,” nodded Madden. “Go on.”
“At dark Sunday night—a short time before the hour when poor Louie was killed—some one drove up in a big car before my place and blew the horn. One of my boys went out, and the stranger asked for McCallum. McCallum came, talked with the man in the car for a moment, then got in and rode off with him—in this direction. That was the last I’ve seen of Mr. McCallum. He left a suitcase filled with clothes in his cabin, but he has not returned.”
“And you think he killed Louie?” asked Madden, with a note of polite incredulity in his voice.
“I don’t think anything about it. How should I know? I simply regard it as a matter that should be called to the attention of the police. As you are much closer to the investigation than I am, I’m asking you to tell them about it. They can come down and examine McCallum’s property, if they wish.”
“All right,” said Madden, rising pointedly. “I’ll tell them. Though if you’re asking my opinion, I don’t think—”
“Thank you,” smiled the doctor. “I wasn’t asking your opinion, Mr. Madden.” She too stood. “Our interview, I see, is ended. I’m sorry if I’ve intruded—”
“Why, you didn’t intrude,” protested Madden. “That’s all right. Maybe your information is valuable. Who knows?”
