Now, Wiggly Price was wise in the ways of his craft; he knew that in a case like this, among such people, a reporter is emphatically unwelcome. From countless previous experiences he had learned that the big thing is to keep the door from being slammed in one's face. There was an old trick that he had used with success before; possibly it was chicanery, but the good reporter must get the story to hold his job. There are times when the exigency of the situation demands a blind eye toward strict ethics, and he knew that, unless he made good on the Gilmore murder yarn, Scoggins would complete the fatefully interrupted business of firing him. There had been a day when New York newspaper men were given neat nickeled and numbered badges, issued by the police department to identify them in getting past the police lines at fires, parades, and the like. They looked official, these badges, and, although they had long since been withdrawn by the department, Wiggly Price had retained his; that word "Police" stamped upon the metal in much larger lettering than "Press" had more than once been the open sesame for him. So when Bates, the Gilmore butler, opened the door in answer to the ring, Wiggly Price flipped back the lapel of his coat so that the servant might be misled by the brief flash and glisten of the metal. "I'm here on the case," Wiggly announced briskly, knowing full well that if he revealed his true identity he would get about so far as "I am a reporter." Then the door would have closed in his face. Bates readily admitted him. "Doctor Bushnell is expecting you?" Wiggly, having no notion of committing himself, evaded the question. "Hum!" he said. "Bad business, I understand. How long since it happened? I'll hear what you know about it before I see Doctor Bushnell." Thus Bates, who would have let his tongue be cut out before he would have divulged so much as a grain of information to a reporter, was misled into telling all he knew. Thinking he was talking to a detective summoned by the doctor, he pridefully told of his own deductions of murder; he omitted nothing, and Jimmy Price's animated ears wiggled delightedly, as he realized how lucky he was. "Fine!" he murmured. "You're a pretty good detective yourself. Now just between us--strictly confidential, y' understand--who do you think killed her?" Bates looked around cautiously, and then lowered his voice to a mere thread of a whisper. "Things began to be queer, sir, after Mr. Sarbella arrived. Mind you, I don't say that he did it, but----" His voice tailed off meaningly. Jimmy Price's ears moved rapidly--swift thinking. "Sarbella?" he said under his breath. "Sarbella? I've heard that name somewhere before." And then aloud: "Where is the doctor now?" "Upstairs with the constable; I think they are in the room where it happened. Who shall I tell him is here, sir?" "Oh, don't bother about that," Wiggly Price said carelessly. "I'll go right on up. No, don't bother. Which room?"