"Speaking for Mr. Price," said Wiggly, "the coffee is sufficient. Thanks just the same." He pushed back his chair and moved to follow the constable. "Like as not when we face 'im with this," suggested Griggs, "he'll break down an' make a clean breast of it." "Oh, Mr. Price," called Etta, "you won't forget to--to speak to the dramatic critic about my play?" Wiggly promised, without committing himself as to just how he would speak of it; there are some things, from a diplomatic standpoint, best left unsaid. The constable clumped briskly out of the house with the reporter following. As they got into the taxi, Ham Griggs wondered if he were not to be asked for a photograph with which to adorn the first page of _The Star_; already he had visualized the caption: "Figures in Gilmore Murder Case--Local Officer Who Solved Baffling Mystery." "If you want my pitcher for the paper," he suggested, "I'd better see about havin' one struck. Of course I ain't lookin' for no puff, but----" "No use going to that expense," Wiggly broke in; "we'll probably have a staff photographer down during the day, and he can snap you on the scene--examining the murder gun, you know, or something like that. Action pictures always more interesting, Mr. Constable," he ended emphatically. The brief trip was completed, and, as the machine again drew to a halt in front of Borough Hall, the chauffeur entered a protest. "Say, boss," he exclaimed, "you don't expect a guy to sit at the wheel forever, do you? A man's gotta sleep some time. Guess you'd better pay what the meter reads an' let me skim back to the big town." Wiggly paid the charge, which was twenty-seven dollars, gave a three-dollar tip, and let him go. Griggs entered the village's public building and led the way down into the basement, where Sarbella was lodged. At the sound of their footsteps, ringing on the concrete floor, the prisoner left off his nervous pacing of the cell's narrow confines and came to the steel door of the cage. His attitude was weary, dejected. "Mebbe you're ready to speak up, huh?" grunted Ham Griggs, facing him from the other side of the bars. "I have nothing to add," Victor Sarbella answered; "you already have the only statement I care to make," he paused briefly and then added, "for the present." "Silence ain't goin' to do you no good, for I aim to keep you right where you are until you get ready to start talkin'," blustered the constable. "We know you killed her; we've dug up some more evidence on you--little matter of a cigarette that you dropped on the floor of that room out to Greenacres." "Cigarette?" muttered Sarbella. "May I have your cigarette case for a moment, Mr. Sarbella?" requested Wiggly. The prisoner hesitated, gave the newspaper man a wary glance, and, evidently realizing that they would take it away from him by force, if he refused, slid his hand into his pocket, producing a silver case inlaid with gold stripes. He shrugged his shoulders.