Favell was the Herald ’s gossip column writer. He made it his business to know everything about anyone in town whose income ran into four figures.
Dallas was a little startled to find Favell and a pretty red-haired girl wrapped together in an embrace worthy of the best traditions of Hollywood. They sprang apart on seeing Dallas, and the girl slid past him, her face scarlet, and fled from the office.
Favell, completely unruffled, eyed Dallas coldly. He was a tall, thin Adonis, with a Barrymore profile, who lived well above his income and was glad to augment his earnings by selling information to the International whenever the opportunity arose.
‘Don’t you know better than to burst into a private office like that?’ he asked tartly as he sat down behind his desk.
‘I wasn’t thinking,’ Dal as said, grinning. ‘Accept my apologies. The next time I’ll let off my gun before coming in.’
‘There’s no need to be facetious,’ Favell said, wiping his mouth careful y with a handkerchief. He eyed the smear of lipstick that appeared on the handkerchief with a grimace of displeasure and tucked the handkerchief away. ‘And don’t go getting any wrong ideas,’ he went on, distantly. ‘She had something in her eye.’
‘Sure. I always get things out of a girl’s eye in the same way.’ Dal as sat on the edge of the desk and offered Favell his cigarette-case. ‘I dropped in for a little information.’
Favell’s acid face brightened, but he didn’t say anything. He lit the cigarette, leaned back in his chair and waited.
‘Know anything about a guy named Preston Kile?’ Dal as asked.
Favell seemed surprised.