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left the Criminal Court building with the intention of returning to his rooms and of exhibiting by act, as well as by word, his complete lack of faith in Seifert's tip. It was back-fire, he argued, which was kindled to becloud the investigation of the Considine case.

Of course, he had recollected, and he had just discussed with Ellison, the matter of the anonymous accusation of Baretta which had arrived in the mail following Ketlar's Indictment; but Calvin made in his mind a balance and upon one scale he placed three featherweight, untrustworthy trifles—the furtively spoken warning of a stranger on the street, a nameless scribble, a tip whispered by the painted lips of a road-house coryphee; upon the other scale he heaped the overwhelming weight of the evidence against Ketlar which he had been gathering and arranging throughout three months and which, during the last week, he had presented and endorsed in court.

"What was that conference for to-night, Mr. Clarke?" a voice hailed him and a newspaper man, whom he knew by the name of Oliver, caught step with him.

"On Considine," Calvin replied.

"What's new on it, sir?"

"Nothing," denied Calvin, and he meant it.

"A lot of you were sitting in upstairs," Oliver objected. "And why did they call you over? You haven't been working on Considine; you've been trying Ketlar."

"Yes," admitted Calvin.