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A long interval of silence followed, in which the three men tried to appraise the precise value of the substitution of prisoners in its relation to Whitmore's untimely death. Whitmore had escaped prison only to meet a worse fate, and in less than twenty-four hours after his wrist was freed from the cold pressure of the steel bracelet.
"Who's going to pay them?" sneered Collins. "Your wife." A loud peal of ironic laughter burst from Collins's lips. But Luckstone silenced the sarcastic merriment with the remark, "She has inherited Mr. Whitmore's estate and announced her determination to repay every dollar of her brother's obligations. This police officer," he pointed a contemptuous finger toward Britz "will confirm what I say."
"It was very kind of you, Mr. Luckstone, to telephone," she murmured gratefully. "Telephone!" he ejaculated. "I don't understand." "Didn't you have one of your men 'phone me? He told me of the will that I had inherited Mr. Whitmore's estate." Luckstone turned his searching eyes on her. "Mr. Whitmore's will was drawn by one of his other attorneys," he said. "I never saw it. It was entrusted to Mr.
"She will be regularly committed it is merely a matter of routine." "But you are making a grave mistake," pleaded the brother. "Isn't there some way of preventing this additional humiliation?" "There is a way," said Britz calmly. "How?" inquired Ward eagerly. "By giving us the full story of Mr. Whitmore's death as you know it." "But I can't I'm not at liberty to talk," protested Ward.
She walked again the length of the room and back; then she sat down to her work, her lips a tense line of determination, and her thoughts delving into the few past years for a strength that might help her to bear the burden of the days to come. Ten years before, and one week after James Whitmore's death, Mrs. James Whitmore had been thrown from her carriage, striking on her head and back.
A single glance at Whitmore's white face and they burst through the door, their faces distorted with terror. "Something's happened to Mr. Whitmore!" shouted the clerk. Drummond, the head clerk, leaped forward in a quick offer of assistance. He remained a minute or two in the private office, then emerged, haggard, with eyes staring. "Mr. Whitmore's been shot!" burst from his lips. "Get a policeman.
"The substitute followed the deputy and the prisoner into the compartment, the handcuffs were slipped from Whitmore's wrist to Timson's, and, at Philadelphia, Whitmore left the train. It is now up to us to trace his movements from the time he alighted at Philadelphia until he walked to his death in his office."
The chief looked unconvinced. "That's all right as far as it goes," he said. "But you appear to have forgotten Ward. Remember, he is a fugitive. He had the same motive as his sister for killing Whitmore. He also profits by Whitmore's death." "The only way he profits is through his sister," returned Britz.
But the papers contained nothing of worth to the police. Mostly they related to Whitmore's business affairs, which apparently were in a healthy and flourishing condition. With a shrug of disappointment the detective flung the last of the documents from him. "Wasted labor!" he observed to the chief. "Might as well return them to Beard."
She tucked a wind-blown lock of brown hair under her hat crown and looked at the agent reproachfully, as if he were to blame, and the agent, feeling suddenly that somehow the fault was his, blushed guiltily and kicked at a box of oranges. "Whitmore's rig is in town," he said, hastily. "I saw his man at dinner. The train was reported late, but she made up time."
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