“What exactly do you mean?”
“Do you want it in detail or do you want just a quick peep at it?” I asked. “It’s bad either way, but in detail it sort of creeps up on you.”
“How long will it take?”
“A half an hour, maybe more; and then you’ll want to ask questions. Say an hour, maybe a little longer. But you won’t be bored.”
He chewed his lower lip, frowning, then reached for the telephone and cancelled three appointments all in a row. I could see it hurt him to do it, but he did it. A ten-minute interview with a guy like Willet would he worth a hundred bucks, maybe more—to him, not to you.
“Go ahead.” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Why haven’t you been in touch with me before?”
“That’s part of it.” I told him, and laid my hat under my chair. I had a feeling I might he buying a new one before very long. “I’ve spent the past five days in an asylum for the insane.”
But I wasn’t going to jar him so easily again. He made a grunting noise, but his expression didn’t change.
“Before I get started,” I said, “maybe you might tell me about Miss Crosby’s banking account. Did you get a look at it?”
He shook his head.