"Wentworth was a friend of mine," said Anderson softly. His knuckles
were white dints in the hand that gripped the chair. "Ever since
the Bat got him I've wanted my chance. Now my other work's cleaned
up--and I still want it."

"But I tell you--" began the chief in tones of high exasperation.
Then he stopped and looked at his protege. There was a silence for
a time.

"Oh, well--" said the chief finally in a hopeless voice. "Go ahead
--commit suicide--I'll send you a 'Gates Ajar' and a card, 'Here
lies a damn fool who would have been a great detective if he hadn't
been so pig-headed.' Go ahead!"

Anderson rose. "Thank you, sir," he said in a deep voice. His eyes
had light in them now. "I can't thank you enough, sir."

"Don't try," grumbled the chief. "If I weren't as much of a damn
fool as you are I wouldn't let you do it. And if I weren't so damn
old, I'd go after the slippery devil myself and let you sit here and
watch me get brought in with an infernal paper bat pinned where my
shield ought to be. The Bat's supernatural, Anderson. You haven't
a chance in the world but it does me good all the same to shake hands
with a man with brains and nerve," and he solemnly wrung Anderson's
hand in an iron grip.

Anderson smiled. "The cagiest bat flies once too often," he said.
"I'm not promising anything, chief, but--"