He came back to the world in the fall of 1932, as usual a “feature” topic in all the newspapers.  The papers, instead of expressing heartfelt regret, continued their old sensational persecution.  One paper did more—­the San Francisco Intelligencer.  John Hartwell, its editor, elaborated an ingenious theory that got around the confessions of the two criminals and went to show that Gluck was responsible, after all, for the murder of Irene Tackley.  Hartwell died.  And Sherbourne died too, while Policeman Phillipps was shot in the leg and discharged from the Oakland police force.

The murder of Hartwell was long a mystery.  He was alone in his editorial office at the time.  The reports of the revolver were heard by the office boy, who rushed in to find Hartwell expiring in his chair.  What puzzled the police was the fact, not merely that he had been shot with his own revolver, but that the revolver had been exploded in the drawer of his desk.  The bullets had torn through the front of the drawer and entered his body.  The police scouted the theory of suicide, murder was dismissed as absurd, and the blame was thrown upon the Eureka Smokeless Cartridge Company.  Spontaneous explosion was the police explanation, and the chemists of the cartridge company were well bullied at the inquest.  But what the police did not know was that across the street, in the Mercer Building, Room 633, rented by Emil Gluck, had been occupied by Emil Gluck at the very moment Hartwell’s revolver so mysteriously exploded.

At the time, no connection was made between Hartwell’s death and the death of William Sherbourne.  Sherbourne had continued to live in the home he had built for Irene Tackley, and one morning in January, 1933, he was found dead.  Suicide was the verdict of the coroner’s inquest, for he had been shot by his own revolver.  The curious thing that happened that night was the shooting of Policeman Phillipps on the sidewalk in front of Sherbourne’s house.  The policeman crawled to a police telephone on the corner and rang up for an ambulance.  He claimed that some one had shot him from behind in the leg.  The leg in question was so badly shattered by three ’38 calibre bullets that amputation was necessary.  But when the police discovered that the damage had been done by his own revolver, a great laugh went up, and he was charged with having been drunk.  In spite of his denial of having touched a drop, and of his persistent assertion that the revolver had been in his hip pocket and that he had not laid a finger to it, he was discharged from the force.  Emil Gluck’s confession, six years later, cleared the unfortunate policeman of disgrace, and he is alive to-day and in good health, the recipient of a handsome pension from the city.