"Right over here." The big man had gleaned that piece of information earlier in the day. The two men crossed the garden by its path, passing the very spot where Simon Varr had met his tragic end, and plunged into the trail. Like the garden, this had been trampled by a multitude of feet. "What are you going to do at the tannery?" asked Krech, yielding to his favorite weakness, curiosity.
"Talk to whoever is in charge. Poke around the premises. We know the crook was there twice, on the occasions of the fires, and where a man has been he may leave a trace. It's an off-chance, but we can't neglect it."
In default of any orders to the contrary, the watchman, Nelson, was at his post behind the office building door, though he shrewdly suspected that the chief necessity for guarding the premises had ceased with their owner's death. He willingly admitted Krech, whom he recognized afar, and nodded comprehension when Creighton introduced himself and his present mission.
"Yes, sir, I've been wondering when you would get here."
"The deuce you have! You knew I was coming?"
"Yes, sir. I heard Mr. Bolt and this gentleman mentioning you yesterday as they went out of here."
Creighton turned and looked at his friend sardonically. Beneath that fixed regard Mr. Krech reddened, but stoutly defended himself.
"That was Jason Bolt," he averred. "He was full of the subject and I remember his chattering about it as we left."
"Um. Can't be helped now." He shifted his gaze to the watchman. "Do you remember if you mentioned it to any one?" Nelson hesitated, and the detective was on him in a flash. "You did! Speak out. Tell the truth, and you'll have no reason to be afraid of me or any one else. This is a murder case, you know. It's an awful mistake to hold anything back. Who did you tell?"
"Only one person sir. A woman. It just slipped out—"