"Thanks." Kent swung his chair nearer the window and opened the
newspaper. He had purchased a copy when walking through Union
Station on his arrival, but had left it in the cafeteria where he
had snatched a cup of coffee and hot rolls before hurrying to his
office.

He read a column devoted to international affairs, scanned an
account of a senatorial wrangle, and was about to turn to the second
page, whistling cheerily, when his attention was arrested by the
headings:

BANK CASHIER DIES IN POLICE COURT
JAMES TURNBULL, MISTAKEN FOR BURGLAR,
SUFFERS FATAL ATTACK OF ANGINA PECTORIS

Kent's whistle stopped abruptly, and clutching the paper in both
hands, he devoured the short account printed under the scare heads:

"While masquerading as a burglar on a wager,
James Turnbull, cashier of the Metropolis Trust
Company, was arrested by Officer O'Ryan at an
early hour yesterday morning in the residence of
Colonel Charles McIntyre.

"Officer O'Ryan conducted his prisoner to the
8th Precinct Police Station, and later he was
arraigned in the police court. The Misses
McIntyre appeared in person to prefer the
charges against the supposed burglar, who, on