“_William Waters_” There was a prolonged pause. Then: “Humph,” growled Leslie savagely. “The ‘fame’ you got isn’t a marker to the fame that reporter Lanagan has heaped on me. For the original ass I’m it. I took that fellow for a loon. Jack, shake.” Lanagan could not forbear a soft sarcasm. That “daffy as a horned toad” rankled: “Give your men a little class in Kraft-Ebing, Lombroso, Nordau or some of those specialists and you will get a better understanding of the pulling power of crime,” he said, dryly. “I hadn’t figured quite this kind of a finish,” he went on. “But the minute he blazed that shot into his brain I was sure he had left a confession. If he couldn’t get notoriety in life he would in death.” Quickly Lanagan told of his suspicions settling on Waters after Bina, his “leak” to the Camorra, had told him that the death of Ratto was as much of a mystery to the Camorrists as it was to the police. With Bresci a Camorra leader, the wise-eyed and wise-eared little Bina heard and saw much that Lanagan in turn was told. On her say-so, he had absolutely dismissed the Camorra. He set himself to watch Waters and for three days and nights scarcely ever let the lineman out of his sight. From safe vantage points he had watched Waters at his grisly work of climbing innumerable telegraph poles. At times he had casually picked him up and talked with him. It was evident that he had also aroused Waters’ suspicions. He noticed him lingering in the neighbourhood of the house where we now were and finally sneak in by the alley door. After he left the house Lanagan had hunted up a locksmith, secured a set of skeleton keys himself, and let himself into the house, not knowing exactly what to expect. He found the blackjack on the door knob, saw the telegraph pole out of the window and in a flash had realised the entire plan of the crazed lineman. Lanagan assumed that Waters would not attempt to lure his victim in daylight. He had come back to the house while we were there merely moved by some insane morbidity to visit again the scene selected for the crime; picture possibly the slain man on the floor, himself peering in from the telegraph pole; and then the columns of newspaper space. That the room was commanded by a telegraph pole I had not noticed during the day or even my sluggish wits might have given me a hint of the truth. “The shot seems to have raised no stir outside, Chief,” said Lanagan, briskly, when the recital was done. “Call in Wilson and Maloney and stick around and give us two hours lee-way before you get the morgue. It’s twelve-thirty. “_Now, son, you hit the pike with me for the Enquirer!_” IV WHOM THE GODS DESTROY IV WHOM THE GODS DESTROY