"Why, what has he done?" asked Kennedy.
"Nothing in particular. But he came out to see us once. You can't blame him for being a bit sore at us fellows hanging about. But he didn't show it. Instead he almost begged us to be careful of how we asked questions of the girl. Of course, all of us could see how completely broken up she is. We haven't bothered her. In fact, we'd do anything we could for her. But Lockwood talks straight from the shoulder. You can see he's used to handling all kinds of situations."
"But did he say anything, has he done anything?" persisted Kennedy.
"N-no," admitted the reporter. "I can't say he has."
Craig frowned a bit. "I thought not," he remarked. "These people aren't giving away any hints, if they can help it."
"It's my idea," ventured another of the men, "that when this case breaks, it will break all of a sudden. I shouldn't wonder if we are in for one of the sensations of the year, when it comes."
Kennedy looked at him inquiringly. "Why?" he asked simply.
"No particular reason," confessed the man. "Only the regular detectives act so chesty. They haven't got a thing, and they know it, only they won't admit it to us. O'Connor was here."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. He went through all the motions—'Now, pens lifted, boys,' and all that—talked a lot—and after it was all over he might have been sure no one would publish a line of his confidences. There wasn't a stick of copy in the whole thing."