The man at the desk was somewhat rotund in both face and body. Like most persons of his proportions, he was inclined to be leisurely.
He picked up a letter from the desk, handled it thoughtfully; then arose and closed the door of the private office. He returned to his desk, cut the envelope with a letter cutter, and took out a folded sheet of paper.
The paper bore a coded message which Rutledge Mann perused without difficulty. Even as he finished reading, the ink on the letter began to disappear. Mann tore up the blank sheet and deposited it in the wastebasket.
He picked up the telephone and called the office of the New York Classic. Connected with the editorial department, Mann asked for Clyde Burke. He spoke a few cryptic sentences into the telephone, then hung up.
Some twenty minutes later, there came a rap at Mann’s door. The stenographer opened it.
“Mr. Burke is here,” she said to the investment broker.
A young chap of medium height entered the room. He was plainly dressed, but presented a neat appearance. His eyes were keen as he closed the door behind him.
“The Andrews case?” he questioned, in a low voice.
“Yes,” responded Mann. “What do you make of it?”
“Plain as the nose on your face. George Andrews got hit in the stock market. Discharged his servants and took a little apartment. Broke. Things became worse. He hung himself.”