"He doesn't look like a prig," I ventured.
"Oh, he looks well enough. But there's something wrong about the man. His own folks acknowledge it; something shameful, furtive; something which will not bear the light. None of those boys are chips of the old block. Let's see the paper. What are you holding it off for? Anything more about Mr. Gillespie's death? Do they call it suicide? That would be a sad ending to such a successful life."
"One question first. Was Mr. Gillespie a good man?"
"He was rich; yet had few if any calumniators."
I handed him the paper. There were some startling lines below those I had read out so glibly.
"They do not stop at suicide," I remarked; "murder is suggested. The drug was not administered by himself."
"Oh!" protested Sam, running his eye over the lines that were destined to startle all New York that morning. "This won't do! None of those boys are bad enough for that, not even Leighton."
"You dislike Leighton," I remarked.
He did not reply; he had just come upon my name in the article he was reading.
"Look here!" he cried, "you're a close one. How came you to be mixed up with the affair? I see your name here."