unlighted cigar into a pulp. Alas! Men are that way. Not sometimes.
Always.

Finally he shoved aside the pile of letters which he had been trying
to read, unhooked the telephone receiver, called a number, got it,
and inquired for a gentleman named Cassidy.

To the voice that answered he gave the name, business and address of
Herman Lauffer, and added a request that undue liberties be taken
with any out going letters mailed and presumably composed and
written by Mr. Lauffer's own fair hand.

"Much obliged, Mr. Vaux," cooed Cassidy, in a voice so suave that
Vaux noticed its unusual blandness and asked if that particular
Service already had "anything on Lauffer."

"Not soon but yet!" replied Mr. Cassidy facetiously, "thanks
ENTIRELY to your kind tip, Mr. Vaux."

And Vaux, suspicious of such urbane pleasantries, rang off and
resumed his mutilated cigar.

"Now, what the devil does Cassidy know about Herman Lauffer," he
mused, "and why the devil hasn't his Bureau informed us?" After long
pondering he found no answer. Besides, he kept thinking at moments
about Miss Erith, which confused him and diverted his mind from the
business on hand.

So, in his perplexity, he switched on the electric foot-warmer,
spread his fur overcoat over his knees, uncorked a small bottle and