Jonas Medderbrook
“You didn’t actually come here to find Mr. Winterberry, did you?” asked Syrilla.
Mr. Gubb folded the telegram, raised his matted hair, and tucked the telegram between it and his own hair for safe-keeping.
“When a deteckative starts out to detect,” he said calmly, “sometimes he detects one thing and sometimes he detects another. That cup is one of the things I deteckated to-day. And now, if all are willing, I’ll step outside and get my pants on. I’ll feel better.”
“And you’ll look better,” said Mr. Dorgan. “You couldn’t look worse.”
“In the course of the deteckative career,” said Mr. Gubb, “a gent has to look a lot of different ways, and I thank you for the compliment. The art of disguising the human physiology is difficult. This disguise is but one of many I am frequently called upon to assume.”
“Well, if any more are like this one,” said Mr. Dorgan with sincerity, “I’m glad I’m not a detective.”
Syrilla, however, heaved her several hundred pounds of bosom and cast her eyes toward Mr. Gubb.
“I think detectives are lovely in any disguise,” she said, and Mr. Gubb’s heart beat wildly.