"Of course," he answered quickly. "Who else could it possibly be?" Then, more thoughtfully, "I don't like the fellow around, but I hardly see how to get rid of him. We can't appear in court against him; and money would only make him want more."
"Mr. Tabor," I said, "there's a man named Maclean in the other room, who went to college with me. He is a reporter—"
"A what?"
"A reporter. He found Miss Tabor's telegram—we were careless not to have looked for it—and that gave him enough to work on until he found us. However, you needn't have any uneasiness about him. He has promised me not to use the story."
"Good, Crosby, very good. Well, what about him?"
"I only thought, sir, that if he would help me, we might be able to find Carucci, and scare the life out of him so that he will keep away. He can't be certain that he hasn't killed his wife, and we can threaten him with that. If he's out of jail, you certainly don't want him about. And Maclean would help, I think, for the story in it. I'm sure that we could trust him not to bring us in."
"Very well. Suppose that you try your hand at it. Only you mustn't go to making inquiries that will mix us up in the matter."
"I'll be careful, sir," I answered.
When I spread the note out before Mac he sniffed and wrinkled his nose.
"Well?" I said.