George trotted obediently off and returned with the papers.
“I say, wasn’t that a fierce thing about poor Jack Horton!” he exclaimed. “You saw it in the papers, of course? He was found murdered——”
“I know!” Storm interrupted hastily. “Mind what you are doing with that clock!—Yes, it was very sad, of course, but a chap in his line of work takes chances, and I suppose he took one too many.”
“It doesn’t seem possible! Poor old Jack!” George’s tone trembled with real feeling. “It is odd that we should have been talking about him only two nights ago; I don’t think we’ve even mentioned his name before in years. And at that very time he was lying dead out there on the Drive, and no one knew! It’s horrible! Why, we passed twice right within a few feet of the spot!”
“That’s so, we did,” Storm said slowly.
“Did you see the latest editions of the papers to-night?” George pursued, and then not waiting for the other to reply, he went on: “That young girl who was in love with him—Big Jim Saulsbury’s daughter—gave an interview to the reporters in which she said she would never rest until his murderers were discovered and convicted. Big Jim is backing her up, too. He came on here to New York, and although he refuses to talk for publication it is understood that he has hired the best private detectives in the country to supplement the authorities. By Jingo, I hope they get them!”
“Do they think some gang were out after him?” Storm asked.
“They don’t seem to think anything!” George waxed indignant. “I tell you, things are in a pretty state in this town when a chap can be decoyed off a train, robbed of a hundred thousand dollars and murdered in cold blood! Where were the police, I should like to know?”
Storm smiled.
“We had a little talk about crime not so long ago, if you remember,” he observed. “You didn’t quite agree with me when I suggested that a person could commit any sort of crime and get away with it if he used his brains, but this looks like a case in point, eh?”