Parkinson.

"Fire ahead, man," advised Barnett impatiently. "Just begin at the
beginning and let it go at that."

Slade sipped at his glass reflectively.

"Well," said he at length, "the best way to begin is to show you how I
happened to be mixed up in it at all."

The officers unconsciously relaxed into attitudes of greater ease.
Overhead the lamps swayed gently to the swell. The dull throb of the
screw pulsated. Stewards clad in white moved noiselessly, filling the
glasses, deferentially striking lights for the smokers, clearing away the
last dishes of the repast.

"I'm a reporter by choice, and a detective by instinct," began Slade,
with startling abruptness. "Furthermore, I'm pretty well off. I'm what
they call a free lance, for I have no regular desk on any of the
journals. I generally turn my stuff in to the _Star_ because they
treat me well. In return it is pretty well understood between us that I'm
to use my judgment in regard to 'stories' and that they'll stand back of
me for expenses. You see, I've been with them quite a while."

He looked around the circle as though in appeal to the comprehension of
his audience. Some of the men nodded. Others sipped from their glasses or
drew at their cigars.

"I loaf around here and there in the world, having a good time
travelling, visiting, fooling around. Every once in a while something