He stopped and gripped my arm. "For ten cents," he said gravely, "I would tell the chief and a few others what I think of them. And then I'd go out and get full." "Not on ten cents!" "I'm going out of the business," he stormed. "I'm going to drive a garbage wagon: it's cleaner than this job. Suicide! I never saw a cleaner case of--" He stopped suddenly. "Do you know Burton--of the _Times-Post_?" "No: I've heard of him." "Well, he's your man. They're dead against the ring, and Burton's been given the case. He's as sharp as a steel trap. You two get together." He paused at a corner. "Good-by," he said dejectedly. "I'm off to hunt some boys that have been stealing milk bottles. That's about my size, these days." He turned around, however, before he had gone many steps and came back. "Wardrop has been missing since yesterday afternoon," he said. "That is, he thinks he's missing. We've got him all right." I gave up my Bellwood visit for the time, and taking a car down-town, I went to the _Times-Post_ office. The Monday morning edition was already under way, as far as the staff was concerned, and from the waiting-room I could see three or four men, with their hats on, most of them rattling typewriters. Burton came in in a moment, a red-haired young fellow, with a short thick nose and a muggy skin. He was rather stocky in build, and the pugnacity of his features did not hide the shrewdness of his eyes. I introduced myself, and at my name his perfunctory manner changed. "Knox!" he said. "I called you last night over the 'phone." "Can't we talk in a more private place?" I asked, trying to raise my voice above the confusion of the next room. In reply he took me into a tiny office, containing a desk and two chairs, and separated by an eight-foot partition from the other room. "This is the best we have," he explained cheerfully. "Newspapers are agents of publicity, not privacy--if you don't care what you say." I liked Burton. There was something genuine about him; after Wardrop's kid-glove finish, he was a relief. "Hunter, of the detective bureau, sent me here," I proceeded, "about the Fleming case." He took out his note-book. "You are the fourth to-day," he said. "Hunter himself, Lightfoot from Plattsburg, and McFeely here in town. Well, Mr. Knox, are you willing now to put yourself on record that Fleming committed suicide?" "No," I said firmly. "It is my belief that he was murdered." "And that the secretary fellow, what's his name?--Wardrop?--that he killed him?" "Possibly." In reply Burton fumbled in his pocket and brought up a pasteboard box, filled with jeweler's cotton. Underneath was a small object, which he passed to me with care. "I got it from the coroner's physician, who performed the autopsy," he said casually. "You will notice that it is a thirty-two, and that the revolver they took from Wardrop was a thirty-eight. Question, where's the other gun?"