“For myself. I admire that young lady.”
Harry Nichols disappeared through the doorway. He returned within a minute with a cabinet-size photo upon the front of which was written, “From Loris, January ’18,” in the vertical chirography much practiced by social buds.
“Thanks,” said Drew unbuttoning his overcoat and thrusting the photo within his breast. “I shall keep and cherish this, as one of my most sacred possessions. Congratulations, young man!”
The detective’s words rang sincere. Nichols flushed. He stammered an answer as Drew hurried down the carpeted steps and joined Delaney at the storm-door.
“Chief,” said the operative as they reached the sidewalk and turned toward Madison Avenue. “Chief, why didn’t you pump that lad about Stockbridge. You didn’t ask him a thing about the old man.”
“Unethical to a client,” reproved Drew linking arm with the operative. “Come on! We must hurry! I’ve an idea—which is a very strange thing for a New York detective to have—that Harry Nichols, if he stays in town on furlough, will represent Loris in all matters. I don’t know where she could find a better counselor. He’s a clam! He told us nothing!”
“Wise boy, Chief! Only fools and women talk to detectives.”
“Umph!” said Drew at this sally. “Umph! Well, come on. It’s quit snowing. It’s daybreak over there in the east and I think the clouds will clear before it gets much later. You––”
“Say, Chief!” exclaimed Delaney clutching the detective’s shoulder and wheeling him around. “Say, stand right there a minute. Right in that light. What’s that on your chin? Right under the tip of your left ear. Turn around a little more!”
Drew raised his left hand and rubbed it across his face. He pinched the lobe of his ear between his thumb and index finger. He whistled with frosty amazement as he eyed his nail and thumb.