“He’s Westville’s best and only. He thinks he’s something terrible as a detective—what you might call a hyper-super-ultra detective. Detective sticks out big all over him—like a sort of universal mumps. He never looks except when he looks cautiously out of the corner of his eye; he walks on his tiptoes; he talks in whispers; he simply oozes mystery. Fat head?—why, Lige Stone wears his hat on a can of lard!”
“Come, I’m not engaging a low comedian for a comic opera.”
“Oh, he’s not so bad as I said. He’s really got a reputation. He’s just the kind of a detective that an inexperienced girl might pick up. Blake will soon find out you’ve hired him, he’ll believe it a bona fide arrangement on your part, and will have a lot of quiet laughs at your simplicity. God made Lige especially for you.”
“All right. I’ll see him to-morrow.”
“Have you thought about the other detective?”
“Yes. One reason I went to New York was to try to get a particular person—Mr. Manning, with whom I’ve worked on some cases for the Municipal League. He has six children, and is very much in love with his wife. The last thing he looks like is a detective. He might pass for a superintendent of a store, or a broker. But he’s very, very competent and clever, and is always master of himself.”
“And you got him?”
“Yes. But he can’t come for a couple of weeks. He is finishing up a case for the Municipal League.”
“How are you going to use him?”