Halsey Makes a Capture

It was about half-past eight when we left the dining-room and still
engrossed with one subject, the failure of the bank and its attendant
evils Halsey and I went out into the grounds for a stroll Gertrude
followed us shortly. "The light was thickening," to appropriate
Shakespeare's description of twilight, and once again the tree-toads
and the crickets were making night throb with their tiny life. It was
almost oppressively lonely, in spite of its beauty, and I felt a
sickening pang of homesickness for my city at night--for the clatter of
horses' feet on cemented paving, for the lights, the voices, the sound
of children playing. The country after dark oppresses me. The stars,
quite eclipsed in the city by the electric lights, here become
insistent, assertive. Whether I want to or not, I find myself looking
for the few I know by name, and feeling ridiculously new and small by
contrast--always an unpleasant sensation.

After Gertrude joined us, we avoided any further mention of the murder.
To Halsey, as to me, there was ever present, I am sure, the thought of
our conversation of the night before. As we strolled back and forth
along the drive, Mr. Jamieson emerged from the shadow of the trees.

"Good evening," he said, managing to include Gertrude in his bow.

Gertrude had never been even ordinarily courteous to him, and she
nodded coldly. Halsey, however, was more cordial, although we were all
constrained enough. He and Gertrude went on together, leaving the
detective to walk with me. As soon as they were out of earshot, he
turned to me.