r-inch bichloride tablet, or a bit of lead like
this. Look here." He dived into his pocket again and drew out a roll of
ordinary brown paper. When he opened it a bit of white chalk fell on the
desk.

"Look at that," he said dramatically. "Kill an army with it, and they'd
never know what struck them. Cyanide of potassium--and the druggist that
sold it ought to be choked."

"Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. Burton smiled his cheerful
smile.

"It's a beautiful case, all around," he said, as he got his hat. "I
haven't had any Sunday dinner yet, and it's five o'clock. Oh--the
cyanide? Clarkson, the cashier of the bank Fleming ruined, took a bite
off that corner right there, this morning."

"Clarkson!" I exclaimed. "How is he?"

"God only knows," said Burton gravely, from which I took it Clarkson was
dead.

CHAPTER XIII

SIZZLING METAL

Burton listened while he ate, and his cheerful comments were welcome
enough after the depression of the last few days. I told him, after some
hesitation, the whole thing, beginning with the Maitland pearls and
ending with my drop down the dumb-waiter. I knew I was absolutely safe
in doing so: there is no person to whom I would rather tell a secret
than a newspaper man. He will go out of his way to keep it: he will lock
it in the depths of his bosom, and keep it until seventy times seven.
Also, you may threaten the rack or offer a larger salary, the seal does
not come off his lips until the word is given. If then he makes a
scarehead of it, and gets in three columns of space and as many
photographs, it is his just reward.

So--I told Burton everything, and he ate enough beefsteak for two men,
and missed not a word I said.

"The money Wardrop had in the grip--that's easy enough explained," he
said. "Fleming used the Borough Bank to deposit state funds in. He must
have known it was rotten: he and Clarkson were as thick as thieves.
According to a time-honored custom in our land of the brave and home of
the free, a state treasurer who is crooked can, in such a case, draw on
such a bank without security, on his personal note, which is usually
worth its value by the pound as old paper."

"And Fleming did that?"

"He did. Then things got bad at the Borough Bank. Fleming had had to
divide with Schwartz and the Lord only knows who all, but it was Fleming
who had to put in the money to avert a crash--the word crash being
synonymous with scandal in this case. He scrapes