“Frightfully interesting, you fellows,” he said, “but it’s after five, and I’ve a date. Anybody I can drop anywhere?”
“Me, please,” accepted Dean Monroe. “That is, if you’re going my way. I want to go downtown.”
“Was going up,” returned Lane, “but delighted to change my route. Come along, Monroe.”
But Monroe had heard a chance word from Doctor Davenport that arrested his attention, and he sat still.
“Guess I won’t go quite yet—thanks all the same,” he nodded at Lane, and lighted a fresh cigarette.
Dean Monroe was a younger man than the others, an artist, but not yet in the class with Barry. His square, firm-set jaw, and his Wedgwood blue eyes gave his face a look of power and determination quite in contrast with Philip Barry’s pale, sensitive countenance. Yet the two were friends—chums, almost, and though differing in their views on art, each respected the other’s opinions.
“Have it your own way,” Lane returned, indifferently, and went off.
“Crime detection is not the simple process many suppose,” Davenport was saying, and Monroe gave his whole attention. “So much depends on chance.”
“Now, Doctor,” Monroe objected, “I hold it’s one of the most exact sciences, and——”
Davenport looked at him, as an old dog might look at an impertinent kitten.