and, failing, sat down. Inspector Clayton stared at Jimmie Dale.

"Oh, it's YOU, eh?" His eyes roved around the room, fastened for an
instant on some of Jimmie Dale's work on an easel, came back finally
to Jimmie Dale--and he plumped himself down in the chair indicated.
"Thought you was more'n a cub reporter," he remarked, with a grin.
"You were too slick with your pencil. Pretty fine studio you got here.
Carruthers says you're going to draw me."

Jimmie Dale smiled--not pleasantly--and leaned suddenly over the desk.

"Yes," he said slowly, a grim intonation in his voice, "going to draw
you--TRUE TO LIFE."

With an exclamation, Clayton slued around in his chair, half rose, and
his shifty eyes, small and cunning, bored into Jimmie Dale's face.

"What d'ye mean by that?" he snapped out

"Just exactly what I say," replied Jimmie Dale curtly. "No more,
no less. But first, not to be too abrupt, I want to join with the
newspapers in congratulating you on the remarkable--shall I call it
celerity, or acumen?--with which you solved the mystery of Metzer's
death, and placed the murderer behind the bars. It is really remarkable,
inspector, so remarkable, in fact, that it's almost--SUSPICIOUS. Don't
you think so? No? Well, that's what Mr. Carruthers was good enough to
bring you up here to talk over--in an intimate and confidential way, you
know."

Inspector Clayton surged up from his chair to his feet, his fists