“He has a sore tongue,” said Quincy, as the elevator door was closed behind him.
After cordial greetings on both sides, for they had not seen each other for nearly a year, Quincy exclaimed, as he sank into a proffered easy chair: “Mary, I am a murderer at heart.”
“That is not strange, Quincy. I have read that the friends of police officers and detectives often imbibe, or rather absorb, criminal propensities. Who is the intended victim, and how do you expect to escape arrest, conviction, and punishment, after incriminating yourself by a confession to a licensed detective?”
“If I had killed your hotel clerk it would have been due to emotional insanity, and I should expect an acquittal—and, perhaps, a testimonial.”
“I got a testimonial to-day from Mr. Isburn. He said I was a wonder.”
“I agree with him.”
Miss Dana flushed perceptibly.
“He had what he considered a good reason for his compliment. I am afraid yours rests on unsupported grounds.”
“Not at all. Have I not known you since you were a child? Can he say as much? Did I not work with you on Bob Wood's case? The help you were to me in trying to solve the mystery of the return of my father's bill of exchange I will never forget,” and for a long time Quincy and Mary talked over the miraculous return of his father.
Finally Quincy said, “I interrupted you. You said that Mr. Isburn considered he had good reasons for complimenting you. Will you tell me what they were?”