“A lot of foolishness, as a rule,” he said. “But here’s the way I figure it: I don’t care so much whether people suspect or don’t suspect. You can’t stop that. But it’s a sure bet that nobody could figure who I was under that pile of bushes.
“I also figured that you’re liable to have a lot of crazy ducks coming in here, anyway! So I made a good job of it!”
“I’m just as glad you did, Joe. Maybe it’s all foolishness on my part; but I’m worried, and I want to get it off my chest. Have a cigar” — he tendered a box — “and listen to what I’ve got to say.”
Joe Cardona lighted the perfecto and leaned back contentedly, his discarded whiskers resting in his lap.
“We’ve worked together before this, Joe,” began the attorney. “You know what I think of you. You’re not only the best detective in New York — you’re the only one in your own particular class. You look into the future — always anticipating everything.
“When you caught that fellow who was making all the trouble for the Kingsley Company, a year ago, you told me that if I ever needed you — on the quiet — there was a way I could get you. Just by calling the Harvard Printing Company and ordering a supply of letterheads on their Triple-A stock.
“I remembered that. I called them yesterday, and gave the order. Here you are. Early in the morning, too!”
“I was out of town,” interrupted Cardona. “Otherwise I would have seen you yesterday afternoon. I hope the delay hasn’t—”
“No harm at all, Joe. Let me tell you why I sent for you:
“I received a letter yesterday noon. If it was written by a sane man, there’s some mysterious danger threatening — not only threatening, but actually gripping myself and other persons so closely that it forms a virtual mesh!