"Then I must tell you a secret. Lieutenant Kinglake and some of his pals are investigating me for membership in a private club that they have. I expect some of them to be nosing around to find out if I'm really respectable enough to associate with them. Don't misunderstand me. If they ask you any questions, you must always tell them the truth. Never lie to detectives, Po't Arthur, because it makes them so bad tempered. But just point them out to me quietly and tell me who they are, so I can say hullo to them when we meet. And every time you do that, I'll be good for another fin."
The negro scratched his head, and then grinned again.
"Don't reckon they's no harm in that, Mistah Templah. That Mistah Kinglake sho' is a hard man. They ain't a single killin' he don't solve here in Galveston. He… Say!" The big brown eyes rolled. "How come you know 'bout Mistah Kinglake?"
"We had a mutual interest in what is known as a corpus delicti," said the Saint solemnly, "but I sold him my share. He's now checking the bill of sale. Do you follow me?"
"Nawsah," said Port Arthur Jones.
"Then don't let it worry you. Read the morning paper for details. By the way, what is the leading newspaper here?"
"The Times-Tribune, sah. They put out a mawnin' an' evenin" paper both."
"They must be as busy as bees," said the Saint. "Now don't forget our agreement. Five bucks per cop, delivered on the hoof."
"Yassah. An' thank yuh, sah."
The Saint grinned in his turn, and went to the bathroom to wash and change his shirt.