“It is the coat of the suit I wore while ‘slumming’ in my investigations concerning the negro race. It has hung in my private closet in the office until some time within the last two months, when it was abstracted by some one having keys to the private offices of J. Dunlap. Mr. Dunlap, Walter Burton and I alone possess such keys. Burton, like me, is tall and slim, the suit will fit him; Burton is of the negro race; I heard Burton play the tune of which the few notes are part when I went to his house on the only occasion that I ever visited the ‘Eyrie;’ Burton’s shoes—I tried an old one today which was left at the office some months ago—exactly fit the tracks left by the murderer. Burton having no suit that he could wear as a disguise while rambling the streets in search of adventure, found and appropriated my old ‘slumming’ suit. You will find that suit, blood-stained, the coat pocket torn, now hidden somewhere in the ‘Eyrie’ if it be not destroyed. Walter Burton is guilty of the Malloy assault and murder!” Chapman had risen from his chair, his face was aflame with vindictiveness and passion, his small eyes blazing with satisfied hatred as he almost yelled, in his excitement, the denunciation of Burton. “Great God! man, it can’t be,” gasped the Chief of Detectives, saying as he regained his breath, “Burton and the Dunlaps are not people to make mistakes with in such a horrible case as this.” “Burton has withdrawn from our firm. He has provided himself with a large sum of currency. He is leaving the country. Tomorrow night he dines with Mr. Dunlap to complete the arrangements for the severance of his relations with the house of J. Dunlap. Captain Jack Dunlap will dine with Mr. Dunlap on that occasion, and I shall be there to draw up any papers required. The coast will be clear at the ‘Eyrie;’ go there upon the pretext of arresting Victor, Burton’s valet, on the charge of larceny; search throughout the premises; if you find the garments, and the coat is in the condition I describe, come at once to the Dunlap mansion and arrest the murderer, or it will be too late, the bird will have flown.” The veins in Chapman’s brow and neck were fairly bursting through the skin, so intense were the passion and vehemence of the man who, straining forward, shouted out directions to the detective. O’Brien sat for several minutes in silence, buried in deep meditation, glancing ever and anon at Chapman, who, chafing with impatience, fairly danced before the desk. The official arose and, walking to the window, stood for some time gazing out upon the lighted street below. Suddenly he turned and came back to Chapman, whom he held by the lapel of the coat, while he said, “Chapman, I know that you hate Burton. I know also of your fidelity to the Dunlaps. You would never have told this to me, even as much as you hate Burton, if it were not true. This disclosure and disgrace, if it be as you suspect, will wound those dear to you.”