Bertha Cool came down on him like an avalanche. Her capable right hand caught a handful of slack cloth in the back of his coat, twisted it into a knot. Her arm shot out straight, and her sturdy legs started marching.
Elsie Brand looked up in surprise as they tore through the outer office.
The outer door slammed with a concussion that jarred the frosted glass. Bertha Cool glared at the door for a second or two, then turned to Elsie Brand’s desk. “All right, Elsie, after him. We’ll teach the chiseler!”
“I don’t get you,” Elsie said.
Bertha grabbed the back of the stenographic chair, sent it spinning and skidding halfway across the floor before Elsie Brand could get up.
“Follow him! Find out who he is and where he goes. If he has a car, get the licence number. On your way! Hurry!”
Elsie Brand started for the door.
“Wait until he gets in the elevator,” Bertha cautioned. “Don’t ride down in the same elevator with him. Pick him up on the street.”
Elsie Brand hurried through the door.
Bertha Cool pushed the typewriter chair back in front of Elsie’s stenographic desk, marched back into her own office, picked up the half-burned cigarette in the holder, fitted it to her lips, and dropped into the big swivel chair.