But at Leffler's they got none, after all. Leffler's was no longer a
stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between
sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a
hospital for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a
blear-eyed old woman who knew nothing of Flood's garage across the
way--did not even remember what had stood there before the new
flat-house began to rise.

"Well--we may run Leffler down somewhere; I've seen harder jobs
done," said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name.

As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine
tone: "I'd undertake now to put the thing through if you could only
put me on the track of that cyanide."

Granice's heart sank. Yes--there was the weak spot; he had felt it
from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his
case was strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come
back to his rooms and sum up the facts with him again.

"Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I'm due at the office now. Besides, it'd be
no use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up
tomorrow or next day?"

He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after
him.

Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty
in demeanor.