a grunt of satisfaction, and directed that the caller be sent up immediately. Then, turning back to us, he said:
"We may learn something more now. I've been expecting this man Higginbotham. He's the detective that followed Leacock from my office this morning."
Higginbotham was a wiry, pale-faced youth with fishy eyes and a shifty manner. He slouched up to the table and stood hesitantly before the District Attorney.
"Sit down and report, Higginbotham," Markham ordered. "These gentlemen are working with me on the case."
"I picked up the bird while he was waiting for the elevator," the man began, eyeing Markham craftily. "He went to the subway and rode up town to Seventy-ninth and Broadway. He walked through Eightieth to Riverside Drive and went in the apartment-house at No. 94. Didn't give his name to the boy—got right in the elevator. He stayed upstairs a coupla hours, come down at one-twenty, and hopped a taxi. I picked up another one, and followed him. He went down the Drive to Seventy-second, through Central Park, and east on Fifty-ninth. Got out at Avenue A, and walked out on the Queensborough Bridge. About half way to Blackwell's Island he stood leaning over the rail for five or six minutes. Then he took a small package out of his pocket, and dropped it in the river."
"What size was the package?" There was repressed eagerness in Markham's question.
