I found a good deal of gossip, but very little of it, indeed, seemed to me at the time to be of importance.  Dropping in at the St. Francis Club, where I had some friends, I casually mentioned the troubles of the Huntington Closes.  I was surprised to learn that Close spent little of his time at the Club, none at home, and only dropped into the hospital to make formal inquiries as to his wife’s condition.  It then occurred to me to drop into the office of Society Squibs, whose editor I had long known.  The editor told me, with that nameless look of the cynical scandalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything about Huntington Close I had best watch Mrs. Frances Tulkington, a very wealthy Western divorcee about whom the smart set were much excited, particularly those whose wealth made it difficult to stand the pace of society as it was going at present.

“And before the tragedy,” said the editor with another nameless look, as if he were imparting a most valuable piece of gossip, “it was the talk of the town, the attention that Close’s lawyer was paying to Mrs. Close.  But to her credit let me say that she never gave us a chance to hint at anything, and—­well, you know us; we don’t need much to make snappy society news.”

The editor then waxed even more confidential, for if I am anything at all, I am a good listener, and I have found that often by sitting tight and listening I can get more than if I were a too-eager questioner.

“It really was a shame the way that man Lawrence played his game,” he went on.  “I understand that it was he who introduced Close to Mrs. T. They were both his clients.  Lawrence had fought her case in the courts when she sued old Tulkington for divorce, and a handsome settlement he got for her, too.  They say his fee ran up into the hundred thousands—­contingent, you know.  I don’t know what his game was”—­here he lowered his voice to a whisper—­“but they say Close owes him a good deal of money.  You can figure it out for yourself as you like.  Now, I’ve told you all I know.  Come in again, Jameson, when you want some more scandal, and remember me to the boys down on the Star.”

The following day the maid visited Kennedy at his laboratory while I was reporting to him on the result of my investigations.

She looked worn and haggard.  She had spent a sleepless night and begged that Kennedy would not ask her to repeat the experiment.

“I can promise you, Marie,” he said, “that you will rest better to-night.  But you must spend one more night in Mrs. Close’s room.  By the way, can you arrange for me to go through the room this morning when you go back?”

Marie said she could, and an hour or so later Craig and I quietly slipped into the Close residence under her guidance.  He was carrying something that looked like a miniature barrel, and I had another package which he had given me, both carefully wrapped up.  The butler eyed us suspiciously, but Marie spoke a few words to him and I think showed him Mrs. Close’s note.  Anyhow he said nothing.