He was.  That evening he dined at the home of the Whitfords.  The mine owner had wanted to go on the bond of Bromfield, but his offer had been rejected.

“We’ll hear what the coroner’s jury has to say,” the man behind the desk at headquarters had decided.  “It’ll not hurt him to rest a day or two in the cooler.”

After dinner the committee of defense met in the Red Room and discussed ways and means.  Johnnie and his bride were present because it would have been cruel to exclude them, but for the most part they were silent members.  Tim Muldoon arrived with Annie Millikan, both of them somewhat awed by the atmosphere of the big house adjoining the Drive.  Each of them brought a piece of information valuable to the cause.

The man in charge of the blotter at the station had told Tim that from a dip called Fog Coney, one of those arrested in the gambling-house raid, an automatic gun with two chambers discharged had been taken and turned in by those who searched him.  It had required some maneuvering for Tim to get permission to see Fog alone, but he had used his influence on the force and managed this.

Fog was a sly dog.  He wanted to make sure on which side his bread was buttered before he became communicative.  At first he had been willing to tell exactly nothing.  He had already been seen by Durand, and he had a very pronounced respect for that personage.  It was not until he had become convinced that Jerry’s star was on the wane that he had “come through” with what Muldoon wanted.  Then he admitted that he had picked the automatic up from the floor where Collins had dropped it when he fell.  His story still further corroborated that of the defense.  He had seen “Slim” fire twice before he was struck by the chair.

Through an admirer Annie had picked up a lead that might develop into something worth while.  Her friend had told her that Durand had made a flat offer to one of the dope fiends caught in the raid to look after him if he would swear that “Slim” had not drawn a gun.  Though the story had not come at first hand, she believed it was true, and thought from her knowledge of him that the man would weaken under a mild third degree.

Clay summed up in a sentence the result of all the evidence they had collected.  “It’s not any longer a question of whether Bromfield goes to prison, but of Durand.  The fellow has sure overplayed his hand.”

Before twelve hours more had passed Durand discovered this himself.  He had been too careless, too sure that he was outside of and beyond the law.  At first he had laughed contemptuously at the advice of his henchmen to get to cover before it was too late.

“They can’t touch me,” he bragged.  “They daren’t.”

But it came to him with a sickening realization that the district attorney meant business.  He was going after him just as though he were an ordinary crook.