"Who defended Travis?" inquired the detective.
"Tom Luckstone was his lawyer. But no defense was offered. The prisoner simply pleaded guilty."
"Thanks!" Britz returned the photograph to his pocket and started for the door. In the corridor Greig laid a detaining hand on Britz's elbow.
"Why—lieutenant—" he gasped,—"that was a photograph of Herbert Whitmore."
"Precisely," said Britz. "And we're going to hop on board the next train for Atlanta."
CHAPTER X
Three days later Britz and Greig returned from Atlanta. It had been a tiresome journey, fifty-five hours of the seventy-two having been spent in a Pullman coach. But the information which they had obtained kept their energies awake. So that when their train drew into the new Pennsylvania station at ten o'clock, they hastened through the illuminated corridors and out into the refreshing night air, with elastic steps and excitement in their eyes.
A telegram sent en route had kept Manning at his desk, awaiting his subordinates. He greeted Britz with unconcealed satisfaction, acknowledging at the same time that he had grown heartily tired of directing the Whitmore investigation.
"It is one awful mess," said he with a comprehensive shrug of his broad shoulders. "And it appears to be getting worse all the time!"