The detective took one step in her direction. He waited then.
“Mr. Drew, how much money do I owe you? I’ll pay you out of my account until the estate is settled.”
The detective smiled broadly. “Nothing,” he said, toying with his watch chain. “I don’t think you owe me anything in this case.”
“Oh, but I do!”
“I don’t think so. Your father retained me. He was—was slain through my own carelessness. I think I owe you something.”
“I can’t let it remain that way.” Loris turned and widened her eyes. A tiny pout sweetened her mouth. Nichols came across the rugs and stood by her side. He turned to Drew.
“That wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “You certainly earned your fee in this case. Why, you look five years older than when you came up into my rooms with that little pistol!”
Drew touched his mustache. He closed his lips. Fatigue swept over him as he said huskily:
“I’ve aged, yes. Well, I guess I have. The responsibility was more than I expected.”
“How much?” asked Loris, opening the check-book.