"Why did you break into that camp?" Ruth demanded angrily.
"Take it easy, lady. Put the gun away, friend."
"Answer the question," I said, keeping the gun on him.
He acted so unimpressed that I felt ridiculous holding the gun.
"I'm a licensed private investigator, friend. Don't put any hole in me while I'm getting my wallet. I'll show you."
He took the wallet out. He took out a card encased in plastic and nipped it toward us. Ruth picked it up. It had his picture and a thumb print and two official looking countersignatures and it said he was licensed by the State of Illinois. His name was Milton D. Grassman. The card said he was forty-one years old, six foot one, and weighed two hundred and five.
"But what are you investigating?" Ruth asked.
He smiled. "Just investigating. And who are you, lady? Maybe you're trespassing." His smile was half good humor, half contempt.
"You're working for Rose Fulton, aren't you?" I asked.
The smile was gone instantly. He didn't seem to move or breathe. I had the impression that a very good mind behind that flat, tough face was working rapidly.