"Killed!" I exclaimed; "Joseph Crawford?"

"Yes; murdered in his home in West Sedgwick. The coroner
telephoned to send a detective at once and we want you to go."

"Of course I'll go. Do you know any more details?"

"No; only that he was shot during the night and the body found
this morning. Mr. Crawford was a big man, you know. Go right
off, Mr. Burroughs; we want you to lose no time."

Yes; I knew Joseph Crawford by name, though not personally, and I
knew he was a big man in the business world, and his sudden death
would mean excitement in Wall Street matters. Of his home, or
home-life, I knew nothing.

"I'll go right off," I assured the Chief, and turned away from
the telephone to find Donovan, the office-boy, already looking up
trains in a timetable.

"Good boy, Don," said I approvingly; "what's the next train to
West Sedgwick, and how long does it take to get there?"

"You kin s'lect the ten-twenty, Mr. Burruz, if you whirl over in
a taxi an' shoot the tunnel," said Donovan, who was rather a
graphic conversationalist. "That'll spill you out at West
Sedgwick 'bout quarter of 'leven. Was he moidered, Mr. Burruz?"

"So they tell me, Don. His death will mean something in