“You’re not going to bed at all?”
“Not until I find out who murdered Stockbridge!”
“Or how he was murdered?” said Delaney, with a puzzled frown as he turned to go.
“If I get the murderer, I’ll find out how he did it!” snapped Drew, with a parting glance.
“TANGLED WIRES”
It was five minutes before nine when Delaney reached the ornate entrance to the skyscraper wherein were the offices of Drew’s Agency.
He wandered into the express elevator, yawned a “eighteen, out” signal to the elevator pilot and stepped from the cage with the general air of a man who had spent a hard night without getting anywhere in particular.
Stopping in the operatives’ room for a few minutes, he picked up scraps of news concerning the case at Stockbridge’s. There was a report, moreover, that an extra was expected by ten o’clock. The air of desertion about the suite told Delaney plainer than words that most of the operatives were upon the case. The entire corps, with few exceptions, had been working hard while he slept. The telephone-girl and the assistant-manager, Harrigan, wound up each of his questions by a nod or a jerk of the thumb toward the inner office where Drew was sitting like a spider in a web which was being spun about the case at hand.