Ballantyne turned to the other man. This individual was short in stature, and wore a cheap black overcoat. His face was sullen and swarthy. In viewing it, Ballantyne could hardly blame Burke for having been suspicious of the man.
“What’s your name?” questioned Ballantyne.
“Marschik,” was the reply. “Steve Marschik.”
“What’s your story?”
“This fellow” — Marschik pointed to Burke — “ran into me outside of here. I wasn’t doing nothing. I thought he was crazy. Sure thing I did.
“It ain’t right, you know, accusing me of trying to put up a fight with him. I’m out of work — nothing to do — got a little money. I want to see the pictures — that’s all.”
He began to empty his pockets. A few envelopes and letters, a pocket comb, a package of cigarettes. He laid the objects on the table. A detective ran through the man’s pockets.
Lamont Cranston had stepped forward. He glanced casually at the articles on the desk. He picked them up carelessly and put them back again.
“All right,” grunted the detective.
Marschik replaced his few belongings. Both he and Burke appeared a bit disgruntled.