Exit the Chief, and in his wake appears at the door the accusing face of the young woman stenographer.
“Alderman Grotz insists——” she began.
“Impossible!” sighed Mr. Burrow dropping into an easy chair. “I’m rushed to death just now.” He gazed off across the roofs and searched his pockets for a cigarette. “Let him wait—let ’em all wait,” he murmured restfully. “That’s good politics.” Then, turning to Copewell, whose frantic pacing of the floor disturbed his composure, he demanded:
“What’s your trouble?”
“Trouble!” exploded the visitor. “Trouble! Why it’s plural multiplied by many, then squared and cubed and——”
“Well, just for a starter, give us one or two and build up from that,” suggested Mr. Burrow placidly. “Another girl, I’ll bet.”
“Another girl!” snorted Mr. Copewell. “There isn’t any other girl! All the rest are counterfeits! There never was but one girl, and I’m going to lose her!” This with deep stress of tragedy. “You must help me.”
“Certainly, I’ll help you.” Mr. Burrow waved his cigarette with airy assurance. “But what’s the matter? Can’t you lose her yourself?”
On the facetious and Honorable Alexander Mr. Copewell permitted the withering blight of his scorn to beat for one awful moment in silence, then he proceeded to enlighten. “I’ve got to steal this girl, or it’s all off. You’ve got to help steal her!”
Mr. Burrow appeared shocked. “But my dear lad,” he demurred, “I’m supervising a police force and a city administration in the interests of Righteousness with a large R. I doubt if it would be just exactly appropriate for me to go into the girl-stealing business on the side.”