"I don't know," I replied bluntly.
"What do you think?" he insisted.
"How can I tell?" irritably. "The police say it was suicide, and they ought to know."
"The Times-Post says it was murder, and that they will prove it. And they claim the police have been called off."
I said nothing of Mr. Lightfoot, and his visit to the office, but I made a mental note to see the Times-Post people and learn, if I could, what they knew.
"I can not help thinking that he deserved very nearly what he got," Edith broke in, looking much less vindictive than her words. "When one thinks of the ruin he brought to poor Henry Butler, and that Ellen has been practically an invalid ever since, I can't be sorry for him."
"What was the Butler story?" I asked. But Fred did not know, and Edith was as vague as women usually are in politics.
"Henry Butler was treasurer of the state, and Mr. Fleming was his cashier. I don't know just what the trouble was. But you remember that Henry Butler killed himself after he got out of the penitentiary, and Ellen has been in one hospital after another. I would like to have her come here for a few weeks, Fred," she said appealingly. "She is in some sanatorium or other now, and we might cheer her a little."
Fred groaned.
"Have her if you like, petty," he said resignedly, "but I refuse to be cheerful unless I feel like it. What about this young Wardrop, Jack? It looks to me as if the Times-Post reporter had a line on him."