So far as he could see there was not so much as a flicker to show that his shot had gone home.
Wicks spoke up, no less aggressively than before.
"Where is he now?"
"No one seems to know. I hope to discover—and report."
Wicks rose and took his hat from the desk.
"Except for your negligence in appearing at the office," he said, "you have done fairly well. Shall you need any help in arresting Durgin? If you wish it I——"
A knock on the door interrupted. A postman entered, met Garrison as he was stepping across the floor, and handed him a thin, flat parcel, crudely wrapped and tied. It was postmarked Rockdale.
Garrison knew it for the photograph—the picture of Cleave for which he had hoped and waited.
"Wait just a minute, Mr. Wicks," he said, backing toward the door with intent to keep his man from departing. "This is a letter from a friend who is helping on the case. Let me look it through. I may have more to report before you go."
Wicks sat down again.