“Election to what?” growled Shane.
“President of the Metropolitan Athletic Club—a big organization—”
“H’m! Who’s the opposing candidate?”
“I am,” replied Hendricks, quietly.
“You! Well, Mr. Hendricks, where were you last night, when this man was killed?”
“In Boston.” Hendricks did not smile, but he looked as if the question annoyed him.
“You can prove that?”
“Yes, of course. I stayed at the Touraine, was with friends till well after midnight, and took the seven o’clock train this morning for New York, in company with the same men. You can look up all that, at your leisure; but there is a point in what Mr. Elliott says. I can’t think that any of the club members would be so keen over the election as to do away with one of the candidates, but there’s the situation. Go to it.”
“It leaves something to be looked into, at any rate,” mused Shane.
“Why didn’t you think of it for yourself?” said Hendricks, rather scathingly. “It seems to me a detective ought to look a little beyond his nose!”