“Thanks. This is a good one,” smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the weed. “We don't often get a chance at such as these.”
“It ought to be good,” laughed Ryder. “They cost two dollars apiece.”
The detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance that he inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him. It was like burning money.
Ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business.
“Well, what have you been doing about the book?” he demanded. “Have you found the author of ‘The American Octopus’?”
“No, sir, I have not. I confess I'm baffled. The secret has been well kept. The publishers have shut up like a clam. There's only one thing that I'm pretty well sure of.”
“What's that?” demanded Ryder, interested.
“That no such person as Shirley Green exists.”
“Oh,” exclaimed the financier, “then you think it is a mere nom de plume?”
“Yes, sir.”