"Pat," she called. "Oh, Pat! Here's a gentleman to see you."
A short, heavy-set man, with gray hair and mustache and a ruddy and weatherbeaten face, arose from among a litter of flower pots and bulbs.
"What can I do for you, sir?" he asked, coming forward and wiping his hands upon his overalls.
The detective studied the man before him intently. The honest and clear-looking eyes told him nothing that was not favorable.
"I came to ask you a few questions, Mr. Lanahan."
"Questions, is it? About what?" The blue eyes showed a sudden flare of suspicion.
"About yourself, and your family."
"Who may you be, then? Is it the tax man?"
Duvall smiled. "Not the tax man," he said. "I represent a firm of lawyers in Washington. My name is Johnson."
Lanahan, still suspicious, pointed to a couple of kitchen chairs that stood on the brick-paved yard beneath a trellis covered with hop vines. "Sit down, sir. I'll have a smoke, if you don't mind." He began to fill his short clay pipe. "What would lawyers in Washington be wantin' with me?"