THE SUPER-TOXIN
"I've got to make good in this Delaney case, Kennedy," appealed our old friend, Dr. Leslie, the coroner, one evening when he had dropped unexpectedly into the laboratory, looking particularly fagged and discouraged.
"You know," he added, "they've been investigating my office—and now, here comes a case which, I must confess, completely baffles us again."
"Delaney," mused Craig. "Let me see. That's the rich Texas rancher who has been blazing a trail through the white lights of Broadway—with that Baroness Von Dorf and——"
"And other war brokers," interrupted Leslie.
"War brokers?" queried Craig.
"Yes. That's what they call them. They're a new class—people with something to sell to or with commissions to buy for belligerent governments. In Delaney's case it was fifty thousand or so head of cattle and horses, controlled by a syndicate of which he was the promoter. That's why he came to New York, you know,—to sell them at a high price to any European power. The syndicate stands to make a small fortune."
"I understand," nodded Kennedy, interested.
"Just as though there wasn't mystery enough about Delaney's sudden death," Leslie hurried on, "here's a letter that came to him today—too late."
Kennedy took the note Leslie handed him. It was postmarked "Washington," and read: