The man whose name he whispered, oddly enough, was at that moment
standing before his official superior in a quiet room not very far
away. Tall, reticently good-looking and well, if inconspicuously,
clothed and groomed, he by no means seemed the typical detective
that the editor had spoken of so scornfully. He looked something
like a college athlete who had kept up his training, something like
a pillar of one of the more sedate financial houses. He could
assume and discard a dozen manners in as many minutes, but, to the
casual observer, the one thing certain about him would probably
seem his utter lack of connection with the seamier side of existence.
The key to his real secret of life, however, lay in his eyes. When
in repose, as now, they were veiled and without unusual quality--
but they were the eyes of a man who can wait and a man who can
strike.

He stood perfectly easy before his chief for several moments before
the latter looked up from his papers.

"Well, Anderson," he said at last, looking up, "I got your report
on the Wilhenry burglary this morning. I'll tell you this about
it--if you do a neater and quicker job in the next ten years, you
can take this desk away from me. I'll give it to you. As it is,
your name's gone up for promotion today; you deserved it long ago."

"Thank you, sir," replied the tall man quietly, "but I had luck
with that case."

"Of course you had luck," said the chief. "Sit down, won't you, and
have a cigar--if you can stand my brand. Of course you had luck,
Anderson, but that isn't the point. It takes a man with brains to