The Doctor looked bad, yellow as wax, with his eyes sunk and inflamed. He didn't take any notice of me beside a fierce sort of look and a gruff,
"Give me Corona 1-4-2."
That was Firehill. I jacked in and the Doctor went into the booth and shut the door. The strange man stood with his hands behind him, looking out of the window. I didn't know then that he was a detective, and I don't think anyone ever would have guessed it. If you'd asked me I'd have said he looked more like a clerk at the ribbon counter. But that's what he was, Walter Mills by name, engaged that morning, as we afterward knew, by the Doctor.
Watching him with one eye I leaned forward very cautiously, lifted up the cam and listened in on the conversation:
"Is this Gilsey?"
Then Gilsey's nice old voice, "Yes, sir. Who is it?"
The Doctor's was quick and hard:
"Never mind that—it doesn't matter. Do you happen to know where Mr. Reddy is?"
My heart gave a big jump—he hadn't caught them! They'd got away and been married!
"Yes, sir, Mr. Reddy's here."