“Well, what can I do for you, sir?” demanded Mern, relieved of apprehension, seeing his advantage and more coldly curt than usual in his dealings with men whom he could bully.
“I had this address,” faltered Latisan; he pulled from his pocket a sheet of paper which had been crumpled into a mass and then folded back into its original creases. “I was thinking—I’ve been sort of planning—I thought I’d come around and ask you——” It was one of the things, this errand, for which he had been trying to summon resolution while he sat in the stuffy room, glancing up at the gas jet.
Mern jerked away the paper, noting that its letterhead was his own. It was his epistle to one “Miss Patsy Jones, Adonia,” demanding from her information as to just what she was doing as an operative for the Vose-Mern agency.
“It’s about Miss Jones. I thought I’d step in——”
“Well?” demanded Mern when Latisan paused.
“That’s her real name, is it? I know how detectives——”
“It’s her real name,” stated Mern, of a mind to protect her until he was convinced that she did not deserve protection by him.
“She works for you?”
“She does.”
“Could I see her for a few minutes—for a few words——”