While waiting for his breakfast, he opened the morning “Bale Fire” to see if there was any account of “The Algonquin Avenue Tragedy.”  This was the phrase which he had arranged in his mind as the probable head-line of the article.  He had so convinced himself of the efficacy of his own precautions, that he anticipated the same pleasure in reading the comments upon his exploit that an author whose incognito is assured enjoys in reading the criticisms of his anonymous work.  He was at first disappointed in seeing no allusion to the affair in the usual local columns; but at last discovered in a corner of the paper this double-leaded postscript: 

“We stop the press to state that an appalling crime was last night committed in Algonquin Avenue.  The mansion of Arthur Farnham, Esq., was entered by burglars between ten and eleven o’clock, and that gentleman assaulted and probably murdered.

“Full particulars in a later edition.”

“LATER.  Captain Farnham is still living, and some hopes are entertained of his recovery.  The police have found the weapon with which the almost fatal blow was struck—­a carpenter’s hammer marked with a letter S. It is thought this clew will lead to the detection of the guilty parties.”

Offitt was not entirely pleased with the tone of this notice.  He had expected some reference to the address and daring of the burglar.  But he smiled to himself, “Why should I care for Sam’s reputation?” and ate his breakfast with a good appetite.  Before he had finished, however, he greatly modified his plan, which was to have the threads of evidence lead naturally, of themselves, to the conviction of Sleeny.  He determined to frighten Sam, if possible, out of the city, knowing that his flight would be conclusive evidence of guilt.  He swallowed his coffee hurriedly and walked down to Dean Street, where by good fortune he found Sam alone in the shop.  He was kicking about a pile of shavings on the floor.  He turned as Offitt entered and said:  “Oh, there you are.  I can’t find that hammer anywhere.”

Offitt’s face assumed a grieved expression.  “Come, come, Sam, don’t stand me off that way.  I’m your friend, if you’ve got one in the world.  You mustn’t lose a minute more.  You’ve got time now to catch the 8.40.  Come, jump in a hack and be off.”

His earnestness and rapidity confused Sleeny, and drove all thoughts of the hammer from his mind.  He stared at Offitt blankly, and said, “Why, what are you givin’ me now?”

“I’m a-givin’ you truth and friendship, and fewest words is best.  Come, light out, and write where you stop.  I’ll see you through.”

“See here,” roared Sam, “are you crazy or am I?  Speak out!  What’s up?”

“Oh!  I’ve got to speak it out, raw and plain, have I?  Very well!  Art.  Farnham was attacked and nearly murdered last night, and if you didn’t do it who did?  Now come, for the Lord’s sake, get off before the police get here.  I never thought you had the sand—­but I see you’ve got too much.  Don’t lose time talking any more.  I’m glad you’ve killed him.  You done just right—­but I don’t want to see you hung for it.”