"Just like this—yes. Then I called in the milkmen—"
"I saw them," interrupted Mulligan. "I know 'em. They're all right, so I let 'em go. We can get 'em after they finish their routes."
"Um," assented Thong. "Anything gone from the store?" he asked Darcy.
"I haven't looked."
"Better take a look around. It's probably a robbery. You know the stock, don't you?"
"As well as she did herself. I've been doing the buying lately."
"Well, have a look. Who's that at the door?" he asked sharply, for a knock as of authority sounded—different from the aimless and impatient kickings and tappings of the wet throng outside.
"It's Daley from the Times," reported Mulligan, peering out. "He's all right. Shall I let him in?"
"Oh, yes, I guess so," assented Carroll, with a glance at Thong, who confirmed, by a nod of his head, what his partner said. "He'll give us what's right. Let him in."
The reporter entered, nodded to the detectives, gave a short glance at the body, a longer one at Darcy, poked Mulligan in the ribs, lighted a cigarette, which he let hang from one lip where it gyrated in eccentric circles as he mumbled: