“Were you asking a question?”
Sheriff Barnes interposed. “Now, wait a minute, Ray,” he said. “That’s not getting us anywhere,” and, with a significant glance toward the curious pedestrians, who had gathered on the sidewalk, “It isn’t doing the case any good. Let’s go up to Mason’s office.”
Mason kicked out the clutch and snapped the car into low gear. “I’ll see you there,” he said.
The others jumped into the police car, followed closely behind, until Mason had parked his machine. They rode up in the elevator with him and entered his private office. When Mason had switched on the lights and closed the door, Sergeant Holcomb said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you birds about this guy.”
“You didn’t warn me,” Raymond Sprague said, “you warned the sheriff.”
“Just what,” Mason asked, “is the beef about?”
“What have you done with Helen Monteith?”
“Nothing,” Mason said.
“We think differently,” Sprague announced.
“Suppose you tell me what you think,” Mason said.