“Your shoulder?” he said.

“Nothing,” declared the Doctor.  “Later on will do for that.”  He brooded for a time.  “You can trust Ellis, can you?”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s the newspapers we have to look out for.  Everything else is easy.”

He conducted the detective, who had finished telephoning, into the library, set out drinks and cigars for him and returned.  Nothing further was said until Ellis arrived.  The associate editor’s face, as he looked from the dead girl to Hal, was both sorrowful and stern.  But he was there to act; not to judge or comment.  He consulted his watch.

“Eleven forty-five,” he said.  “Better give out the story to-night.”

“Why not wait till to-morrow?” asked Dr. Surtaine.

“The longer you wait, the more it will look like suppressing it.”

“But we want to suppress it.”

“Certainly,” agreed Ellis.  “I’m telling you the best way.  Fix the story up for the ‘Clarion’ and the other papers will follow our lead.”

“If we can arrange a story that they’ll believe—­” began Hal.

“Oh, they won’t believe it!  Not the kind of story we want to print.  They aren’t fools.  But that won’t make any difference.”

“I should think it would be just the sort of possible scandal our enemies would catch at.”

“You’ve still got a lot to learn about the newspaper game,” replied his subordinate contemptuously.  “One newspaper doesn’t print a scandal about the owner of another.  It’s an unwritten law.  They’ll publish just what we tell ’em to—­as we would if it was their dis—­I mean misfortune.  Come, now,” he added, in a hard, businesslike voice, “what are we going to call the cause of death?”

“Miss Neal died of heart disease.”

“Call it heart disease,” confirmed the other.  “Circumstances?”

This was a poser.  Dr. Surtaine and Hal looked at each other and looked away again.

“How would this do?” suggested Ellis briskly.  “Miss Neal came here to consult Dr. Surtaine on an emergency in her department at the factory, was taken ill while waiting, and was dead when he—­No; that don’t fit.  If she died without medical attendance, the coroner would have to give a permit for removal.  Died shortly after Dr. Surtaine’s arrival in spite of his efforts to revive her; that’s it!”

“Just about how it happened,” said Dr. Surtaine gratefully.

“For publication.  Now give me the real facts—­under that overcoat of yours.”

Dr. Surtaine started, and winced as the movement tweaked the raw nerves of his wound.  “There’s nothing else to tell,” he said.

“You brought me here to lie for you,” said the journalist.  “All right, I’m ready.  But if I’m to lie and not get caught at it, I must know the truth.  Now, when I see a man wearing an overcoat over a painful arm, and discover what looks like a new bullet hole in the wall of the room, I think a dead body may mean something more than heart disease.”