"Who — who's the boss here?" he asked, in a sort of croak.
Masters shoved out a chair for him, and H. M. bent forward.
"Easy there," grunted the latter. "Look here, son, what's the idea of crashing in here and shoutin' that candy-box business all over the place? Wanta get thrown in clink?"
"Only way the saps would let me in," said Emery huskily. "They thought I was a reporter. Might as well get pinched. What's the difference now anyway? Mind if I catch a drink?" He fumbled in his inside pocket.
H. M. studied him. "Your little press-agent stunt with that chocolate box went pretty sour, didn't it?"
"Whoa there!" said Emery. His hand jerked. "I didn't say "
"Well, now, you might as well have. Don't be a God-forsaken fathead. She'd forbidden you to tell the papers where she was, or let you splash out with any publicity yarn. That's what you were grousin' about. So you thought you'd provide a little news she couldn't help, without endangerin' her life. Or anybody else's, unless it was necessary. You were goin' to spot that poisoned box of chocolates, only Rainger got in ahead of you, Big story in the papers, `Attempt on Marcia Tait's Life.' Fine publicity, hey? Send the box to the chemist, find it was poisoned. Then John Bohun insisted on everybody there eatin' one of 'em, and you got a fit of heroic conscience. Bah." H. M. peered at him sourly through the big spectacles. He puffed his cheeks and made bubbling noises; then he looked at Bennett. "Are you beginnin' to understand now why I told you in my office yesterday that there was nothin' to be afraid of, and that Tait wasn't in any danger, hey? She wouldn't 'a' been — if we'd had only this feller Emery to deal with. But we didn't. We had somebody who really meant to kill her…"
"Ho ho," said H. M. in hollow parody, and without mirth. "Fine work. All a sedulous press-agent got for his ingenuity was a good stiff dose of strychnine, and not even the satisfaction of breakin' the story. Because our sensible friend Rainger pointed out somethin' he overlooked: that there'd be a police investigation, and they might not get Tait back to America in time to be within her contract. Very sensible feller, Rainger."
Masters picked up his notebook and nodded grimly.
"There's still room," he said, "for a police investigation. We're not very fond of that sort of journalism over here. After all, when you send poison to somebody, that constitutes an act of attempted murder. I daresay you knew that, Mr. Emery?"