"No—there's some more in another place. Here: 'Johnston Barker, whose interview with Harland is supposed to have driven the desperate lawyer to suicide, was not found in his house last night. Repeated telephone calls throughout the evening only elicited the answer that Mr. Barker was not at home and it was not known where he was.' Then there's a lot about him and his connection with the Copper Pool. Do you want to hear it?"
"No, I know all that. Pretty grisly business. But I don't see why Barker's lying low. Why the devil doesn't he show up?"
"Perhaps he doesn't like the notoriety. Does it say in your paper too that they couldn't find him?"
"About the same. Looks to me as if there was a nigger in the woodpile somewhere."
"Maybe he never expected the man would kill himself and he's prostrated with horror at what he's responsible for."
Babbitts threw down his paper with a sarcastic grin:
"I guess it takes more than that to prostrate Johnston Barker. You don't rise from nothing to be one of the plutocrats of America and keep your conscience in cotton wool."
I turned the page of my paper and there, staring at me, was a picture of the man we were talking about.
"Here he is," I said, "on the inside page," and then read: "'Johnston Barker, whose interview with Hollings Harland is thought to have precipitated the suicide and who was not to be found last evening at his home or club.'"
Babbitts came round and looked over my shoulder: