Ashton-Kirk and Scanlon had finished with their lunch at Claghorn's; at the cigar counter in the lobby they paused while they selected their favorite brands.
"How are you?" said a familiar voice, and looking up they saw Osborne, big, smiling and serene. "Nasty day," he proceeded, shaking some raindrops from the rim of his hat. "I suppose you've heard the news."
Ashton-Kirk carefully lighted the tip of a blunt cigar.
"What news?" he asked.
The heavy shoulders of the headquarters man twitched with pleasure; he saw, in this answer, the evasion of a defeated man.
"Why," said he, with an effort to keep the triumph out of his voice, "the confession of Frank Burton."
"Oh, that!" The investigator elevated his brows. "Yes, we heard it. As a matter of fact the confession was made in the first place to Scanlon and me."
The elation died slowly in the broad face of Osborne; however, that he still felt his sagacity to be of a superior quality was plain. So he said, with a carelessness calculated to discount the point gained by the other:
"Oh, that so? Hadn't heard of it. Well," and he laughed good-humoredly, "that makes it all the better. You know it's true!"
"It's so, all right," said Scanlon. "He told it to us, and afterward to the warden and a half dozen of the prison people."