"Then, too," he went on, "I like to be with people like Spencer
and Brixton. For example, while I was waiting here for you, there
came a call from Emery Pitts."

"Emery Pitts?" I echoed. "What does he want?"

"The best way to find out is--to find out," he answered simply.
"It's getting late and I promised to be there directly. I think
we'd better take a taxi."

A few minutes later we were ushered into a large Fifth Avenue
mansion and were listening to a story which interested even
Kennedy.

"Not even a blood spot has been disturbed in the kitchen. Nothing
has been altered since the discovery of the murdered chef, except
that his body has been moved into the next room."

Emery Pitts, one of the "thousand millionaires of steel,"
overwrought as he was by a murder in his own household, sank back
in his easy-chair, exhausted.

Pitts was not an old man; indeed, in years he was in the prime of
life. Yet by his looks he might almost have been double his age,
the more so in contrast with Minna Pitts, his young and very
pretty wife, who stood near him in the quaint breakfast-room and
solicitously moved a pillow back of his head.

Kennedy and I looked on in amazement. We knew that he had recently