He imagined that
some secret society, some implacable organization, was on
Douglas's track, which would never rest until it killed him.
Some remarks of his had given him this idea; though he had never
told him what the society was, nor how he had come to offend it.
He could only suppose that the legend upon the placard had some
reference to this secret society.
"How long were you with Douglas in California?" asked Inspector
MacDonald.
"Five years altogether."
"He was a bachelor, you say?"
"A widower."
"Have you ever heard where his first wife came from?"
"No, I remember his saying that she was of German extraction, and
I have seen her portrait. She was a very beautiful woman. She
died of typhoid the year before I met him."
"You don't associate his past with any particular part of
America?"
"I have heard him talk of Chicago. He knew that city well and
had worked there. I have heard him talk of the coal and iron
districts. He had travelled a good deal in his time."
"Was he a politician? Had this secret society to do with
politics?"
"No, he cared nothing about politics."
"You have no reason to think it was criminal?"
"On the contrary, I never met a straighter man in my life.
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