He clapped his felt hat to his head and started toward the door.
"You can bet your last dollar on that! I'm going to get one, and he'll be here tomorrow if telegrams can bring him. I'll have Sam Braceway, the cleverest fellow in this business in the South, here tomorrow! I intend to have punishment for the devil who killed my wife. Punishment!—the worst kind!"
His lips were trembling, and he dashed the back of his hand across his face, as if he feared the formation of tears in his eyes.
"You two boneheads can put that in your pipes and smoke it! I mean business!"
He slammed the door, and was gone, taking the steps to the street in two bounds.
"By cracky!" said Greenleaf. "What do you make of that?"
"Nothing," Bristow answered contemptuously; "nothing except that it may be well for us to find out a whole lot more about Mr. Withers and his peculiarities of temper and temperament."
"I should say so," the chief chimed agreement.
"Of course," Bristow added, "that was the easiest way for him to break off our inquiry. I don't think he was on the level with all that storming and raging. It might have been just a great big bluff—that's all. And yet, that Braceway he talked about is good, a wonder. He's done some wonderful work."
"Here's one point," Greenleaf advanced: "why didn't he ask for help from the police yesterday afternoon when he lost track of that fellow with the gold tooth?"