"I always said McCooey was n't the man to go out on that case," said
the Second Deputy, still watching Copeland.

"Then who _is_ the man?" asked the Commissioner.

Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and struck a match. It was
out of place; but it was a sign of his independence. He had long since
given up plug and fine-cut and taken to fat Havanas, which he smoked
audibly, in plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his body stout and
his breathing slightly asthmatic. He sat looking down at his massive
knees; his oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had yielded him scant
satisfaction. Copeland, in fact, was making paper fans out of the
official note-paper in front of him.

"What's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake,
attentively regarding his cigar.

"They 're just where we are--at a standstill," acknowledged the
Commissioner.

"And that's where we 'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy.

The entire situation was an insidiously flattering one to Blake. Every
one else had failed. They were compelled to come to him, their final
resource.

"Why?" demanded his superior.

"Because we have n't got a man who can turn the trick! We have n't got
a man who can go out and round up Binhart inside o' seven years!"