Tossing his hat upon his desk, he sat down and went methodically through his papers. He unfolded his Times, his mind intent upon the problem of the missing millionaire. He had not seen Doris since that night in the box. The first paper under his hand was an early edition of a rival evening journal.
He glanced down at the headlines on the front page, then with a horrified cry he sprang to his feet. He was pale, and the hand which gripped the paper shook.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed.
Jamieson swung round in his swivel chair.
"What's up?" he inquired.
"Farrington!" said Frank, huskily. "Farrington has committed suicide!"
"Yes, we've a column about it," remarked Jamieson, complacently. "A pretty good story." Then suddenly: "You knew him?" he asked.
Frank Doughton lifted a face from which every vestige of colour had been drained. "I—I was with him at the theatre on the night he disappeared," he said.
Jamieson whistled softly.
Doughton rose hurriedly and reached for his hat.