The question stopped there, but the inference was plain.
Perhaps Chatham had killed Harriman also. Braved by one successful murder, he would have possessed the nerve to kill another man.
But even the tabloid restrained from making further imputation.
THREE days had gone by, without a trace of Horace Chatham. Yet the hue and cry still persisted.
Perhaps the hectic columns that told of the Wilkinson murder were becoming tiresome to the public at large; but to one man, they were most enjoyable. This individual sat at his desk in a small office on Forty-eighth Street, with piles of newspaper clippings in front of him, and smiled as he ran his scissors through the pages of the afternoon newspapers.
The reversed letters on the glass door of the office proclaimed his name and occupation: CLYDE BURKE
Clipping Bureau
Burke finished his search through the newspapers, then sat back in his chair, and lighted his pipe. He seemed well contented with life.
Burke was a man not yet thirty years of age, but his firm, well-molded features indicated long experience.
He was light in weight, almost frail in build; yet his eyes and his face showed a determination found in men who seek action.