"There was an acquaintance of his named Burton—Tom Burton—sometimes called the Bounder, who called here at times to talk to him." Hutchinson's smile disappeared completely, and a glassy look came into his eyes. "One night, just a week ago, Burton came here; he had some trouble with Fenton; some hours later he was found murdered."
Hutchinson gasped brokenly; reaching out one trembling hand he touched Ashton-Kirk's sleeve.
"I didn't have anything to do with that," he said. "I didn't know anything about it, even, until I saw it in the papers on the day after."
"You do know something about it," said Ashton-Kirk; "so suppose you tell us—but wait," a new thought apparently occurring to him. "First call up Fenton, and get him here; we'll want to talk to him, too."
"But I don't know where he——"
"He's at home," said Ashton-Kirk, briefly; "and there is a telephone in the hall, not a dozen yards from his room."
This precision was too much for Hutchinson; so he went, with scared face, to a telephone at one side, and asked for a number. The talk between the two men had been carried on in low tones; none of the players at the table was aware of its nature. There was a slight delay in procuring the number asked for, but finally a small, inquiring voice was heard.
"I want to speak to Fenton," said Hutchinson. "Get him on the 'phone, will you?"
The small, far-off voice seemed protesting, but Hutchinson urged, persistently:
"Well, what if he is in bed? This is important. Kick on his door; tell him Hutchinson wants to speak to him right away."