“Safe at last!” exclaimed Perry Lamont, when he found himself alone. “It’s in the fire and he’s out of the way. I would like to know if Claude really had much trouble. The paper said it was vertigo, but we know better. Claude is sure the post mortem will not reveal anything. They won’t catch Claude!”
He chuckled to himself and looked at the darkened ashes of the false confession in the grate.
By and by he returned to the desk and sat down, his head falling on his breast like that of a weary man, and in a short time he was fast asleep.
The house grew still. Outside Claude Lamont was hurrying downtown, while Opal, in the parlor almost for the first time since her bout with the detective, thrummed the piano.
Some distance from the Lamont mansion Carter, the detective, was watching the actions of a man who mixed drinks behind a bar.
It was Caddy, the mixer at the Trocadero, and the detective, well disguised, seemed to take more than a passing interest in his movements.
By and by Caddy put on his coat and walked out, with Carter at his heels.
All at once the hand of the detective fell upon Caddy’s shoulder, and the little man stopped at once.
His face grew white when he looked up and saw the keen eyes that seemed to read his inmost thoughts.
“Don’t do it again,” said the detective.