"Mendoza is dead. Lockwood tells me he knew nothing
about it until very lately--since the murder, I suppose."
"You suppose?" persisted Kennedy. "Are you sure that he knew
nothing about it before?"
"No," confessed Whitney, "I'm not sure. Only I say that he told me
nothing of it."
"Then he might have known?"
"Might have. But I don't think it very probable."
Whitney seemed to be turning something over in his mind. Suddenly
he brought his fist down on the little round table before us,
rattling the glasses.
"Do you know," he exclaimed, "the more I think about it, the more
convinced I am that Norton ought to be held to account for that
loss! He ought to have known. Then the presumption is that he did
know. By heaven, I'm going to have that fellow watched. I'm going
to do it to-day, too. I don't trust him. He shall not double-cross
me--even if that woman does!"
I wondered whether Whitney was bluffing. If he was, he was making
a lot of fuss over it. He talked more and more wildly, as he grew
more excited over his latest idea.
"I'll have detectives put on his trail," he blustered. "I'll talk
it over with Lockwood. He never liked the man."
"What did Lockwood say about Norton?" asked Kennedy casually.
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