Conigsby welcomed me and I soon saw that the topic of conversation was the reports that all had been reading in the papers about the mystery that shrouded the death of Marshall Maddox.
“Peculiar fellow, Maddox,” commented Conigsby. “What do the boys down on the Star have to say about the case, Jameson?”
I had no desire to commit myself, yet I wanted to glean as much as I could. For although we are prone to accuse the ladies of gossip, I think most men will back me up when I say that there is no place for the genuine article that cannot be beaten by a comfortable window in a club where congenial spirits have gathered over a succession of brandies and soda.
“It promises to be the great case of the year,” I returned, guardedly. “So far, I understand there is much more in the life of Maddox than even some of his friends suspect.”
At the mere suggestion of scandal all eyes were fixed on me. Yet I was determined to speak in riddles and betray nothing, in the hope that some of them might open up a rich vein of inquiry.
Conigsby laughed. “Perhaps more than some of his friends imagined—yes,” he repeated.
“Why, what was it?” inquired one of the group. “Is there another woman in the case? I thought Maddox was divorced.”
“So he was,” returned the clubman. “I knew his wife, Irene, before they were married. Really, it was a shame the way that man treated her. I can claim no special virtue,” he added, with a shrug, “but then I haven’t a wife—not so much as a friend who would care whether I was here or in No Man’s Land. But Maddox—well, he was one of those men who have worked hard all their lives, but in middle age seem to begin sowing the wild oats they failed to sow in youth. You know the kind. I guess he must have reached the dangerous age for men, if there is such a thing.”
“What was it—chorus girls?” chimed in the other, ever ready for a spicy bit of gossip.
“Yes—lately cabaret dancers—one in particular—at The White Light—a little Mexican—Paquita.”