He wormed himself painfully into an overcoat which concealed his scarified shoulder, and went out. In a few moments he and the officer reappeared. The latter glanced at the body. "Heart disease, you say?" he asked. "Yes: valvular lesion." "Better 'phone the coroner's office, eh?" "Not necessary. I can give a certificate. The coroner will be all right," said Dr. Surtaine, with an assurance derived from the fact that a year before he had given that functionary five hundred dollars for not finding morphine in the stomach of a baby who had been dosed to death on the "Sure Soother" powders. "That goes," agreed the detective. "What undertaker?" "Any. And, Murtha, while you're at the 'phone, call up the 'Clarion' office and tell McGuire Ellis to come up here on the jump, will you?" Left to themselves, with the body between them, father and son fell into a silence, instinct with the dread of estranging speech. Hal made the first effort. "Your shoulder?" he said. "Nothing," declared the Doctor. "Later on will do for that." He brooded for a time. "You can trust Ellis, can you?" "Absolutely." "It's the newspapers we have to look out for. Everything else is easy." He conducted the detective, who had finished telephoning, into the library, set out drinks and cigars for him and returned. Nothing further was said until Ellis arrived. The associate editor's face, as he looked from the dead girl to Hal, was both sorrowful and stern. But he was there to act; not to judge or comment. He consulted his watch. "Eleven forty-five," he said. "Better give out the story to-night." "Why not wait till to-morrow?" asked Dr. Surtaine. "The longer you wait, the more it will look like suppressing it." "But we _want_ to suppress it." "Certainly," agreed Ellis. "I'm telling you the best way. Fix the story up for the 'Clarion' and the other papers will follow our lead." "If we can arrange a story that they'll believe--" began Hal. "Oh, they won't believe it! Not the kind of story we want to print. They aren't fools. But that won't make any difference." "I should think it would be just the sort of possible scandal our enemies would catch at." "You've still got a lot to learn about the newspaper game," replied his subordinate contemptuously. "One newspaper doesn't print a scandal about the owner of another. It's an unwritten law. They'll publish just what we tell 'em to--as we would if it was their dis--I mean misfortune. Come, now," he added, in a hard, businesslike voice, "what are we going to call the cause of death?" "Miss Neal died of heart disease." "Call it heart disease," confirmed the other. "Circumstances?" This was a poser. Dr. Surtaine and Hal looked at each other and looked away again.