MAYNARD, pacing with nervous strides back and forth in Palmer’s apartment, paused in front of Dr. Hayden.
“Things look black,” he admitted. “Devilish black for René La Montagne.”
Hayden made a last entry in his day book and slipped it inside his pocket before answering.
“I am afraid they do,” he agreed. “Any news from Police Headquarters?”
“Only to say that Detective Mitchell is still out; I left word for him to call here.” Maynard flung himself down on the lounge by Hayden. “I wish I had been with you when Burnham preferred charges against René; rotten luck being detained down town and missing all the excitement.”
Any comment Hayden might have made was checked by the noisy entrance of Palmer from his work-shop, a small room at the back of his apartment which he had fitted up with office appliances and draughtsman’s tools.
“Have you seen Siki?” he asked.
“I have,” replied Maynard, “I sent him on an errand, Palmer. Siki told me it was his time off so——”
“That’s all right; glad you got some work out of the beggar.” Palmer wheeled an arm chair forward and dropped wearily into it. “Night work is playing the devil with me. What is the latest bulletin from the Burnhams’, Hayden?”
“Burnham ill and Evelyn better,” answered the physician tersely.