Craig was still there, waiting alone.
"That Dr. Lord will be a tough customer," he remarked. "Of course you're not interested in what happens in a case after we have caught the criminal. But that often is really only the beginning of the fight. We've got him safely lodged in the Tombs now, however."
"I wish there was some elixir for fatigue," I remarked, as we closed the laboratory that night.
"There is," he replied. "A homeopathic remedy—more fatigue."
We started on our usual brisk roundabout walk to the apartment. But instead of going to bed, Kennedy drew a book from the bookcase.
"I shall read myself to sleep to-night," he explained, settling deeply in his chair.
As for me, I went directly to my room, planning that to-morrow I would take several hours off and catch up in my notes.
That morning Kennedy was summoned downtown and had to interrupt more important duties in order to appear before Dr. Leslie in the coroner's inquest over the death of the chef. Dr. Lord was held for the Grand Jury, but it was not until nearly noon that Craig returned.
We were just about to go out to luncheon, when the door buzzer sounded.
"A note for Mr. Kennedy," announced a man in a police uniform, with a blue anchor edged with white on his coat sleeve.
Craig tore open the envelope quickly with his forefinger. Headed "Harbour Police, Station No. 3,
