"Obscure, ain't you?" he demanded.
"Obscure?" inquired Garrison. "Perhaps I am—just at present—here in
New York."
"You are!" stated Mr. Wicks aggressively.
Garrison was not enamored of his manner.
"All right," he said—"all right."
Mr. Wicks suddenly leaned forward and fetched his index finger almost up against the young man's nose.
"Good at murder?" he demanded.
Garrison began to suspect that the building might harbor lunatics, several of whom had escaped.
"Am I good at murder?" he repeated. "Doing murder or——"
"Ferreting murder! Ferreting murder! Ferreting murder!" cried the visitor irritably.