“What’s coming off?” asked Delaney with an Irish grin. “Another stock scandal like the Flying Boat one?”
“An echo of it—perhaps,” said Drew. “It’s dog eat dog, I guess. Stockbridge is no saint. Some man with a whispering—consumptive voice has ’phoned him the news that he was going to die before daylight. I don’t think he is. Not if I can help it.”
“Who did he rob this time—the old devil!”
“He’s retired. It’s a case, perhaps, of thieves falling out in high places. Remember how Stockbridge beat Morphy to the District Attorney and told all he knew, and went before the Grand Jury? Morphy may be behind this threat-by-wire.”
“Morphy’s behind bars, Chief!”
“I know that. He’s always dangerous, though.”
“Another old devil,” said Delaney thrashing his arms. “I can see him now, Chief, in his big automobile. A husky man with a leather coat and cap. And always a woman by his side, Chief. A different woman, every time!”
“He fell a long way, Delaney. Come on. We’ll forget Morphy for a while. Stockbridge is alone. He is in danger.”
Drew clutched the operative’s arm and motioned across the street. They plunged through the snow with heads down. They entered the iron-grilled gate. Drew touched a button set in the stone of the doorway. He repeated the signal.
The door opened to a crack. A chain rattled. A face blotted out the inner light of the mansion.