Chapter 19

“You remember Wallace Barrington,” began Tutt—“that young accountant we did some business for? His wife died two years ago, and he’s been looking after his old mother and four children ever since. Firm paid him fifty-five hundred a year—pretty good; but his wife’s illness took all his savings. They lived over in Flatbush, somewhere near the Coney Island Boulevard.” “Well?” inquired Mr. Tutt, exhaling a cloud of poison gas. “Well,” echoed Tutt, “he was walking home from an overtime job the other night and a drunken …