The District Attorney had sat down at his desk and was glancing at several notations on his blotter.
“There are a couple of my men waiting to see me,” he remarked, without looking up; “so, if you’ll be good enough to take a chair over here, I’ll proceed with my humble efforts to undermine society still further.”
He pressed a button under the edge of his desk, and an alert young man with thick-lensed glasses appeared at the door.
“Swacker, tell Phelps to come in,” Markham ordered. “And also tell Springer, if he’s back from lunch, that I want to see him in a few minutes.”
The secretary disappeared, and a moment later a tall, hawk-faced man, with stoop-shoulders and an awkward, angular gait, entered.
“What news?” asked Markham.
“Well, Chief,” the detective replied in a low grating voice, “I just found out something I thought you could use right away. After I reported this noon, I ambled around to this Captain Leacock’s house, thinking I might learn something from the house-boys, and ran into the Captain coming out. I tailed along; and he went straight up to the lady’s house on the Drive, and stayed there over an hour. Then he went back home, looking worried.”
Markham considered a moment.
“It may mean nothing at all, but I’m glad to know it anyway. St. Clair’ll be here in a few minutes, and I’ll find out what she has to say.—There’s nothing else for to-day. . . . Tell Swacker to send Tracy in.”
Tracy was the antithesis of Phelps. He was short, a trifle stout, and exuded an atmosphere of studied suavity. His face was rotund and genial; he wore a pince-nez; and his clothes were modish and fitted him well.