And then, as Kernan’s ready finger kept the button and the waiter working, his weak point—­a tremendous vanity and arrogant egotism, began to show itself.  He recounted story after story of his successful plunderings, ingenious plots and infamous transgressions until Woods, with all his familiarity with evil-doers, felt growing within him a cold abhorrence toward the utterly vicious man who had once been his benefactor.

“I’m disposed of, of course,” said Woods, at length.  “But I advise you to keep under cover for a spell.  The newspapers may take up this Norcross affair.  There has been an epidemic of burglaries and manslaughter in town this summer.”

The word sent Kernan into a high glow of sullen and vindictive rage.

“To h——­l with the newspapers,” he growled.  “What do they spell but brag and blow and boodle in box-car letters?  Suppose they do take up a case—­what does it amount to?  The police are easy enough to fool; but what do the newspapers do?  They send a lot of pin-head reporters around to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have beer while they take photos of the bartender’s oldest daughter in evening dress, to print as the fiancee of the young man in the tenth story, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder.  That’s about as near as the newspapers ever come to running down Mr. Burglar.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Woods, reflecting.  “Some of the papers have done good work in that line.  There’s the Morning Mars, for instance.  It warmed up two or three trails, and got the man after the police had let ’em get cold.”

“I’ll show you,” said Kernan, rising, and expanding his chest.  “I’ll show you what I think of newspapers in general, and your Morning Mars in particular.”

Three feet from their table was the telephone booth.  Kernan went inside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open.  He found a number in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon Central.  Woods sat still, looking at the sneering, cold, vigilant face waiting close to the transmitter, and listened to the words that came from the thin, truculent lips curved into a contemptuous smile.

“That the Morning Mars? . . .  I want to speak to the managing editor. . .  Why, tell him it’s some one who wants to talk to him about the Norcross murder.

“You the editor? . . .  All right. . .  I am the man who killed old Norcross . . .  Wait!  Hold the wire; I’m not the usual crank . . .  Oh, there isn’t the slightest danger.  I’ve just been discussing it with a detective friend of mine.  I killed the old man at 2:30 A. M. two weeks ago to-morrow. . . .  Have a drink with you?  Now, hadn’t you better leave that kind of talk to your funny man?  Can’t you tell whether a man’s guying you or whether you’re being offered the biggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? . . .  Well, that’s so; it’s a bobtail scoop—­but you can hardly expect