Brennan covered the top of his desk with cigarette stubs, stood on end in his characteristic way, as the hands of the clock neared 6.
"I hope Gibson is letting us have this alone—didn't tip the other papers," he said.
Sharply at the appointed time the telephone bell tinkled and Brennan lifted the receiver.
"Yes," he said. "This is Brennan. Yes, he's here.—Where?—All right, we'll be right down."
"He's at his office," Brennan explained and they started away, the photographer trailing them.
The door of Gibson's office was locked when they reached it. Brennan rapped.
"Who is it?" they heard Gibson's voice ask from the other side.
"Brennan and Gallant."
The key turned in the lock and the door opened. They scarcely recognized Gibson as he stood before them. He wore a peaked cap pulled down over his eyes, a flannel shirt and a well worn suit, spotted with grease and oil. A stubble of black beard covered his face and his hands were black and grimy.
"Come in, boys," he said, laughing. "Something's going to happen before morning."