“But only an ear,” Jimmie protested. “What can you tell by that?”
“Much,” said Tom. “Ears are neglected by most detectives. I have made a sort of specialty of them. Come over to my room and I’ll show you my collection of ears.”
“Collection of ears?” Jimmie was shocked.
“Oh, I don’t keep them in alcohol.” Tom laughed. “They’re not real, though they seem so at a little distance. You’ll find them interesting. Come at noon and we’ll have lunch together.”
“That—Say! That will be grand!” said Jimmie.
“Here’s the address,” Tom pressed a bit of cardboard into his hand. “Go up as far as the elevator will take you, climb two flights of stairs, knock sharply three times, wait sixty seconds, then knock again. If you get no response, turn and walk down again,” Tom laughed shortly, “for I’ll either be dead or shall have forgotten an appointment, neither of which has happened in five years.
“And now,” he put out a hand, “good-night and thanks for letting me in on this.”
“That’s all right,” Jimmie stammered. To be thanked by a truly famous young detective, that was something.
Jimmie passed his father’s office on the way back. A green shade drawn over his eyes, he was pounding furiously at the typewriter keys.
“Be ready in twenty minutes,” his head jerked back for a second. “We’ll make the train O. K.” Once again his eyes, behind thick glasses, were fixed on his pencilled copy.