“Yes, it might have been your tip,” admitted Latisan, knotting his brows, staring at the floor, confused in his memories and puzzling over the mystery. “I had promised to bring down the logs because she asked me to keep on and do it.”
“There you have it!” indorsed Crowley, swinging his arm and flattening his thick palm in front of the chief. “I claim the credit.”
Crowley had become defiantly intrepid, facing that manner of man who was so manifestly cowed and muddled. The operative was back in his encouraging environment of the city; he remembered the thrust of those prongs of fingers on his head when he was obliged to dissemble and was shamed in the north country. He was holding his grudge. And he was assiduously backing up the claims he had made to his chief. “The girl you’re talking about had nothing to do with pulling you off the job. She was double-crossing our agency.”
“Think so?” queried Latisan.
“I know it. But I don’t know what fool notion got into her up there. I have told Mr. Mern all about it. I’m the boy who woke you up!”
“Do you agree, Latisan?” asked Mern, brusquely.
“I’m not thinking clearly, sir. But if this man is right, I ought to apologize to her.”
“She is no longer employed by us, but we’ll try to locate her.” Mern was willing to come out in front of Crowley with that information; the situation did seem to have cleared up! “Hang around town. Come in again.”
Latisan dragged himself up from his chair.
Then Crowley of the single-track mind—bull-headed blunderer—went on to his undoing. “I’m sorry it has come about that you’ve got to fire her, Chief. I know what a lot she was worth to you here, as long as she kept to her own job.”