"This is Jimmie, Carruthers," he said. "Yes, I got it. Thanks. . . .
Yes. . . . Listen. I want you to get Inspector Clayton, and bring him up
here at once. . . . What? No, no--no! . . . How? . . . Why--er--tell him
you're going to run a full page of him in the Sunday edition, and you
want him to sit for a sketch. He'd go anywhere for that. . . . Yes. . . .
Half an hour. . . . YES. . . . Good-bye."

Jimmie Dale hung up the receiver; and, hastily now, began to write upon
a pad that lay before him on the desk. The minutes passed. As he wrote,
he scored out words and lines here and there, substituting others. At
the end he had covered three large pages with, to any one but himself,
an indecipherable scrawl. These he shoved aside now, and, very
carefully, very legibly, made a copy on fresh sheets. As he finished, he
heard a car draw up in front of the house. Jimmie Dale folded the copied
sheets neatly, tucked them in his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and was
lolling lazily in his chair as Jason announced: "Mr. Carruthers, sir,
and another gentleman to see you."

"Show them up, Jason," instructed Jimmie Dale.

Jimmie Dale rose from his chair as they came in. Jason, well-trained
servant, closed the door behind them.

"Hello, Carruthers; hello, inspector," said Jimmie Dale pleasantly, and
waved them to seats. "Take this chair, Carruthers." He motioned to one
at his elbow. "Glad to see you, inspector--try that one in front of the
desk, you'll find it comfortable."

Carruthers, trying to catch Jimmie Dale's eye for some sort of a cue,