Sheriff Kowen got out of his chair quickly, and placed one at the end of the desk for his visitor. Then he seated himself again, and looked across to her.
She appeared to be nervous, almost distraught, on the verge of tears.
"My dear Miss Blanchard," Sheriff Kowen said, glancing at the card the stenographer had handed to him, and for once forgetting his usual gruff manner, "is there any way in which I may be of service to you?"
"I scarcely know how to approach the subject," she replied. The sheriff noticed that her voice was all that he had expected it would be—a voice that was modulated to the correct society pitch. "Such a thing as—as this is—well, I am not used to it."
"Just take your time, and tell me in your own way," said the sheriff. "You have—er—some sort of a complaint to make?"
"Yes, that is it. In the first place, we do not reside in this city regularly. We have a suite at a private hotel—my mother, my brother and myself. It is about my brother that I wish to see you."
"He is—er—in trouble?"
"Not exactly that, but—please tell me, first, Mr. Kowen, it is against the law to operate a gambling house, is it not?"
"It most certainly is!" Kowen exclaimed. "When I was first elected, I fought gambling houses—got quite a reputation for working along that line. I fought the cheap ones, and I fought the pretentious dress-suit establishments—cleaned them out!"
"Pardon me, Mr. Kowen, but one remains—else it is a new one that has opened recently."