Out of a Labyrinth

by Lawrence L. Lynch

"Concerning the gentleman in gray?"

My entertainer nodded.

"Assuredly not," said I, affecting languid surprise. "Nothing wrong about the gentleman, I hope?"

"Nothing wrong, oh, no," leaning over the desk, and speaking slowly. "They say he is a detective."

"A detective!" This time my surprise was not entirely feigned. "Oh—is not that a sensationalism?"

"Well," said my host, reflectively, "I might think so if I had heard it from any of the ordinary loungers;—the fact is, I had no right to mention the matter. I don't think it is guessed at by many."

He was beginning to retire within himself. I felt that I must not lose my ground, and became at once more interested, more affable.

"Oh, I assure you, Mr. Holtz, I am quite interested. Do you really think the man a detective? Pray, rely on my discretion."

There were two hard, unpainted chairs behind the office desk, and some boxes containing cheap cigars, upon a shelf against the wall. I insinuated myself into one of the chairs, and presently, Mr. Holtz was seated near me in the other, smoking one of his own cigars, at my expense, while I, with a similar weed between my lips, drew from him, as best I could, all that he had heard and thought concerning Mr. Blake Simpson, the gentleman in gray.