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“Pay for the call out of that, miss, and keep the change,” he said genially. “Sorry I was so boisterous just now.”

Thirty minutes later, still radiating gratification, Marr stood at the cigar stand making a discriminating choice of the best in the humidor of imported goods. Gulwing and Hartridge were over there on the sofa, cheek by jowl, and all was going well.

Half aloud, to himself, he said, smiling in prime content: “Well, I guess I’m bad!”

“I guess you are!” said a voice right in his ear; “and you’re due to be worse, Chappy, old boy–much worse!”

The smile slipped. He turned his head and looked into the complacent, chubby face and the pleased eyes of M. J. Brock, head of Brock’s Detective Agency–the man of all men in this world he wished least to see. For once, anyhow, in his life Marr was shaken, and showed it.

“That’s all right, Chappy,” said Brock soothingly, rocking his short plump figure on his heels; “there won’t be any rough stuff. I’ve got a cop off the corner who’s waiting outside if I should need him–in case of a jam–but I guess we won’t need him, will we? You’ll go along with me nice and friendly in a taxicab, won’t you?” He flirted his thumb over his shoulder. “And you needn’t bother about Gulwing either. I’ve seen him–saw him as soon as I came in. I guess he’ll be seeing me in a minute, too, and then he’ll suddenly remember where it was he left his umbrella and take it on the hop.”

Marr said not a word. Brock rattled on in high spirits, still maintaining that cat-with-a-mouse attitude which was characteristic of him.

“Never mind worrying about old pal Gulwing–I don’t want him now. You’re the one you’d better be worrying about; because that’s going to be a mighty long taxi ride that you’re going to take with me, Chappy–fifteen minutes to get there, say, and anywhere from five to ten years to get back–or I miss my guess…. Yes, Chappy, you’re nailed with the goods this time. Propbridge is going through; his wife too. They’ll go to court; they’ll shove the case. And Cheesy Zaugbaum has come clean. Oh, I guess it’s curtains for you all right, all right.”

“You don’t exactly hate yourself, do you?” gibed Marr. “Sort of pleased with yourself?”

“Not so much pleased with myself as disappointed in you, Chappy,” countered the exultant Brock. “I figured you were different from the rest of your crowd, maybe; but it turns out you’re like all the others–you will do your thinking in a groove.” He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Chappy, tell me–not that it makes any difference particularly, but just to satisfy my curiosity–curiosity being my business, as you might say–what number was it you called up from here about thirty minutes back? Come on. The young lady over yonder will tell me if you don’t. Was it Worth 10,000?”

“Yes,” said Marr, “it was.”

“I thought so,” said Brock. “I guessed as much. But say Chappy, that’s the trunk number of the Herald. Before this you never were the one to try to break into the newspapers on your own hook. What did you want with that number?”

“That’s my business,” said Marr.

“Have it your way,” assented Brock with ironic mildness. “Now, Chappy, follow me a minute and you’ll see how you dished your own beans: You call up Worth 10,000–that’s a private matter, as you say. But Central gets the call twisted and gives you another number–that’s a mistake. And the number she happens to give you is the number of my new branch office down in the financial district–that’s an accident. And the fellow who answers the call at my shop happens to be Costigan, my chief assistant, who’s been working on the Propbridge case for five weeks now–and that’s a coincidence. He doesn’t recognize your voice over the wire–that would be luck. But when, like a saphead, you pull your new moniker, but with the same old initials hitched to it, and when on top of that you ask for George Spillane, which is Cheesy by his most popular alias–when you do these things, why Chappy, it’s your own fault.

“Because Costigan is on then, bigger than a house. You’ve tipped him your hand, see? And with our connections it’s easy–and quick–for Costigan to trace the call to this hotel. And inside of two minutes after that he has me on the wire at my uptown office over here in West Fortieth. And here I am; as a matter of fact, I’ve been here all of fifteen minutes.

“It all proves one thing to me, Chappy. You’re wiser than the run of ’em, but you’ve got your weak spot, and now I know what it is: You think in a groove, Chappy, and this time, by looking at the far end of the groove, you can see little old Warble-Twice-on-the-Hudson looming up. And you won’t have to look very hard to see it, either…. Well, I see Gulwing has taken a tumble to himself and has gone on a run to look for his umbrella. Suppose we start on our little taxi ride, old groove thinker?”