“No, not that way—steeplejack.”
“Painting spires?”
“Not only spires, but signs in high places—dangerous places-and, you know, Mr. Stone, he told us—that day at the Embury house—that he didn’t climb—that he painted signs, and let other people put them up.”
“Yes; well? What of it?”
“Only this: why did he try to deceive us? Why, Mr. Barton says he’s a most daring climber—he’s practicing to be a human fly.”
“A human fly? Is that a new circus stunt?”
“You know what I mean. You’ve seen a human fly perform, haven’t you?”
“Oh, that chap who stood on his head on the coping of the Woolworth Building to get contributions for the Red Cross work? Yes, I remember. He wasn’t Hanlon, was he?”
“No, sir; he was the original—or one of the first ones. There are lots of human flies, now. They cut up tricks all over the country. And Willy Hanlon is practicing for that but he doesn’t want it known.”
“All right, I won’t tell. His guilty secret is safe with me!”