"Cop stuff," said he, to himself. "What do you think of that?"

When he returned once more to the room in which he had left the others, Scanlon found Dennison b.u.t.toning up his top-coat.

"I'll be in to-morrow," said the man; "and my togs will be sent around to-day."

When he had departed, Scanlon looked at Ashton-Kirk.

"I guess you'll have to take your work-out with the big Greek," said he.

"Stanwick's my next stop; and I'm going to get the first train."

"Stanwick?" Ashton-Kirk's keen eyes regarded him inquiringly.

"Funny thing, ain't it? Here I didn't know a thing about this murder, and then I get it piled in on me from two places. That was Tom Burton's wife just in to see me--Nora Cavanaugh."

"Oh, yes, to be sure. She is--or was--his wife, wasn't she?"

"She had a fine lot of excitement with her. Dennison ain't the only one who saw Burton last night. He called on Nora after the show, and wanted money, as, it seems, he always did. But she refused him and he went away sore."

"He was an utter scamp," said Ashton-Kirk. "It's rather remarkable, though, how he managed to keep just outside the reach of the law."

"Nora's been pestered by the cops, and she wants me to have them called off," said Bat. "And she's asked me to go out to Stanwick and see what they are doing there."

"The police?"

"Yes. I don't know just what it's all about; but Nora knows, and that's enough for me."

Ashton-Kirk smiled as the big man went to a closet and took out a long coat and a soft hat.

"Miss Cavanaugh is fortunate in the control of such an obedient geni,"

said he, quietly. "But good luck on your trip; and while you are gone, I'll grapple with the Greek, as you suggest."

CHAPTER III

THE CLOUD GROWS DARKER

Stanwick was a "made" suburb; ten years before its site had been occupied by farms; but a keen-eyed realty man had seen promise in it and bought it up, shrewdly. The streets were wide, the walks were narrow and lined with trees that would one day spread n.o.bly. The houses were built in rows, each independent of the other, mounted upon little terraces, fronted by guards of iron railing and prim little flower gardens. Bat Scanlon, as he regarded it, nodded knowingly.

"It's the kind of a place where the seven-twenty is the chief topic in the morning, and the five-fifteen in the afternoon," he told himself.

"The habits of the rubber plant are common property; and every man in every street thinks his roses have it all over the man's next door."

Duncan Street proved much like the others; and No. 620 had all the characteristics to be expected of it. When Scanlon stopped before it he found a little group of idlers standing on the walk, each member of which stared at him with a curiosity that was active and acute.

"h.e.l.lo, Kelly!" saluted Bat, as he recognized a portly policeman at the little iron gate.

"How are you, Bat?" responded the policeman, in a surprised tone. "What are you doing away out here?"

"Just thought I'd run out and take a look around," said Scanlon. He had seen to the training of the athletic team of the police department for several years, and was well known to most of the officials and many of the patrolmen. And it just happened that the man on guard at the gate, due to Bat's instructions, had been the winner of the heavyweight wrestling honors in the last inter-city tournament. "Anything new?"

"I haven't heard anything," replied Kelly. "Osborne, from headquarters, went in a few minutes ago with the coroner's a.s.sistant. The sergeant and a couple of men have been here all morning."

Bat opened the gate and went slowly up the path. The house was a bright, cheerful-looking place; the little garden was laid out in walks, the trees were carefully trimmed; and though it was still October, everything had been made ready for the winter season.

"Nice little home," commented the big man. "Shows care and thoughtfulness. No place at all for a murder."

In reply to his ring the door was opened by a second policeman. A few words brought the sergeant in charge to the door; and he shook hands with Scanlon and asked him to step in.

"Any interest in this case?" he asked, and his broad, red face displayed a great deal of that very thing. "Is your friend Ashton-Kirk along with you?"

"No," replied Bat, easily, "he's not. But from what I hear, it's the kind of a thing he'd like."

The sergeant shook his head.

"Oh, between you and me it's simple enough," said he. "The newspapers have played it up some, that's all. To my mind, the party that croaked Burton ain't out of reach by a long shot; and if they'd have left it to me I'd had him at City Hall an hour ago."

"That so!" Bat looked surprised. "I thought it was one of those things all bundled up in mystery."

He went slowly down the hall and turned in at the first door to the left, which stood partly open, and from behind which he heard voices. A burly, good-natured looking man with a derby hat in his hand was talking to a dapper, quick-eyed personage whose carefully trimmed beard and immaculately white waistcoat gave him the conventional "professional"

look. Near a window was a big chair, among the pillows of which reclined a young girl with a pale, sweet face and that appearance of fragility which comes of long-continued illness; beside her stood an anxious-looking young man whose haggard countenance told of a sleepless night and a hara.s.sed mind.

Scanlon at once recognized in the big man the "well-known"--as the newspapers always put it--city detective, Osborne; and so calmly advanced and shook his hand.

"Glad to see you," spoke Osborne, affably. "Meet Dr. Shower, a.s.sistant to the coroner," indicating the white waistcoated gentleman.

"These investigations are not exactly the thing I care for," Dr. Shower told Osborne, after acknowledging the presentation, graciously. "As a matter of fact I think they are entirely within the duties of the police. We of our office shouldn't be dragged out to view dead bodies in all sorts of places; it consumes a great deal of time, and, as far as I can see, can do no possible good."

Osborne shrugged his heavy shoulders.

"Well, Doctor," spoke he, "maybe you've got it right. But when old Costigan was coroner he always insisted that a body--especially in a case like this--should not be touched until he had looked at it and asked his questions."

"Costigan was romantic," stated Dr. Shower, as he stroked his beard with a firm hand; "he had imbibed a great deal of theoretical detective nonsense, and tried to act up to it. However," with a lifting of one eyebrow, "here I am, so I might as well get to work." He looked about.

"Where is the body?"

"In the room just across the hall," said Osborne.

"Just so." Dr. Shower looked at the young man and the young woman. "And these are--?"

"The son and daughter of the murdered man," answered the detective.

"To be sure." Shower smoothed his waistcoat with the same firm gesture.

"Of course." Then to the young man: "Am I right in understanding that your father did not reside here?"

The young man laughed suddenly; the sound was unexpected and full of bitterness, and caused Bat Scanlon to look swiftly toward him.

"Yes, you are quite right in that," said the son. "Quite right! My father did _not_ live here."