ABSTRACT
NORTHWOOD drove to his office on that fatal Tuesday morning, just as he had driven so many hundred times before, and took his seat at his desk, on which the usual telegrams and letters were displayed. He glanced carelessly over them. The day had passed when letters or telegrams from London or Liverpool were of much interest. Busoni bent an inquiring glance, which his chief met with a brief shake of the head. Northwood had failed to find a way out during the night.
