“No.”
Barney was one of the attaches of the central office. A little, thin, weasel-faced individual, who never had an original idea, and whose entire ambition was summed up in the word obedience. Given an order, and he would obey it with the unswerving determination of a machine. As a shadow, he had no superior, but he had never in the world been guilty of advancing a theory upon any case in which he was engaged.
Taken originally to the scene of a crime, or asked to unravel a mystery, he was as helpless and incompetent as a schoolgirl; but let someone direct him, tell him what to do, and how to do it, and he had no equal for methodical tenacity and slyness.
Nick sometimes made use of him, and now he said:
“Keep him free for a day or so, inspector; I may want him.”
“I will.”
Nick left the central office, and repaired at once to his own home where he found Chick.
“I want you, lad,” he said. “Ready—always ready,” and the younger man followed his master to the little study.
“Chick, have you finished the Morrison case?”
“No, not quite.”