“Amounted to that. Went into an old house out there—gloomy-looking place—long way back from the road—no other houses near. I had him down for some sort of a yegg, and when I saw him go into that murky old mansion I called it a day and quit.” “What made you think he was crooked?” “One or two things I overheard on the train—and then he played a few queer games when I was trailing him in the taxi.” “Get the address?” “There wasn’t any number at the gate, but I got the name of the street on a lamp post. Not sure what it was, though. Something like Torreytown—or Torringtown—or one of those——” I broke off suddenly. Duds gave me a quick look. “Table behind you!” I muttered. “What’s the matter with it?” he grunted, his voice down with mine. “Man got a shock when I mentioned that street.” “Maybe he lives on it.” I shook my head slightly. “Well, go on—what do you care?” I was just going to speak when Duds stopped me. “Wait a minute!” he said, his voice down several pegs more. “That street you mentioned—I’ve read about it somewhere—in some paper.” “About the street?” “Yes—or—or something that happened on it. Remember there was a lot of excitement—everybody guessing. What did we get from Boston along then?” “One of their murders most likely—if it was something you read about outside.” “Hold on—I’m getting it! It was that case the police tried to hush up—lot of queer stuff to it—everybody wondering what in God’s name it was all about. Inventor in it somewhere—don’t you remember that? It was first-page stuff all over the country.” “No—they had me down in Panama after that Boston trip, covering a Senate Investigating Committee. Saw some headings but didn’t know what it was all about.” “Peculiar case all right. What was it you overheard on the train?” “Began at the Grand Central. I was running for the five-eleven Boston express—P.M. I needn’t say. Just as I got to the gate an excited old woman—poorly dressed—queer hat on sideways—dangling gray hair and all that—came hurrying across from somewhere and plunged in ahead of me trying to pass the gateman. He held her up for a ticket of course, and there was quite a time, she calling out that her son was on the train—she’d got to speak to him—he had no business to be there, and a flood of talk like that. It made a kind of a riot—for the gateman put her down as crazy and didn’t like to pass her in among the rolling stock; and in a minute there was a crowd of people about, and a station policeman coming over on the run, and the assistant station master arriving a second or two later: with the result that the two of them—the station master and the policeman—took her through and down the incline to the train, to see if she really had a son on board.