He went on to the lobby of the theater and gave his name to the doorman. An usher led him to the office.
When Cranston entered, he found George Ballantyne quizzing two men who sat before him. Ballantyne was speaking to one in particular, a quiet, well-dressed young man, who seemed quite at ease.
“You say your name is Clyde Burke,” said Ballantyne. “What do you do?”
“I was formerly a newspaper reporter,” replied the young man. “At present I conduct a clipping bureau and engage in free-lance journalism. This little occurrence to-day is quite unusual. It might make a good newspaper story for—”
“Mr. Burke,” interrupted Ballantyne, in a worried tone, “we are not trying to put you to any inconvenience. We are merely asking you to cooperate with us.
“There have been some er — disturbances in our theaters. We are watching all who enter. You had an encounter with this man in the lobby—”
“I did,” interposed Burke. “I jostled him accidentally. He became angry. I saw his hand go to his pocket. I became excited, thinking that he might be drawing a gun. I grabbed him.
“Then these men of yours” — he pointed to two detectives who stood solemnly by — “took hold of us and brought us here.”
“Would you mind if we searched your pockets, Mr. Burke?”
“Not in the least.” Burke emptied the contents of his pockets on the desk, and a detective followed with a search. Nothing suspicious came to view. Burke returned the articles to his pockets.