“That’s the idee! You’d keep it dark. It wouldn’t be nobody’s business but yours and mine, would it? It would be a quiet little deal between you and me, and nobody would know anything about it. Hey?”
“Exactly sure,” said Philo Gubb. “The deteckative business is conducted onto an absolutely quiet Q.T. basis.”
“Correct!” said his visitor. “I see you and me can do business. Now, my name is Gus P. Smith, and I’ve had one of the rawest deals handed me a man ever had handed him. I was coming along down one of these alleys between streets this morning and—”
He stopped short and turned to the door. Some one had tapped on the panels. Mr. Smith opened the door the merest crack and peered out. He closed it again instantly.
“Somebody to see you,” he whispered. “What I’ve got to say I want kept private. I’ll be back.”
He opened the door and slipped out, and as he went a second visitor entered. The newcomer was somewhat tall and thin, and his hair was long, so long it fell upon his shoulders in greasy curls. He wore a rather ancient frock coat and a black slouch hat, and a touch of style was added by his gray kid gloves, although the weather was average summer weather. His face was thin and adorned by a silky brown beard, divided at the chin and falling in two carefully arranged points. He closed the door carefully, first looking into the hall to see that Mr. Gus P. Smith had disappeared.
“Mr. P. Gubb, the detective?” he asked.
“Most absolutely sure,” said Mr. P. Gubb.
“My name,” said Mr. Gubb’s visitor, “is one you are doubtless familiar with. I am Alibaba Singh.”