"All the accounting that's going to be done," Morphew heavily countered, "is going to happen right here and now, before either you or me leave this room." He shifted a passionless glare to his henchmen. "Clear out and wait in the hall: I'll give a whistle if I want you again. If I give two whistles, one of you call a cop—the rest come running."
Lanyard indecorously yawned, then gave an open laugh as the battered bodyguard withdrew. Uninvited, he helped himself to an overstuffed lounge chair, and sighed in grateful relaxation.
"A policeman, my good Morphew! do my ears mislead me?"
"No," Morphew definitely replied, "they don't."
Pagan cocked a critical eye at the ears in question. "Even foreshortened," he volunteered, "they don't look like ears to mislead anybody else."
But Pagan could wait, Lanyard couldn't afford to let an antic second distract any of the attention due his principal.
"I am to understand," he persisted, addressing Morphew, "it is your intention to give me in charge?"
"That rests with you."
"Monsieur undoubtedly is pleased to be humorous . . ."
"Maybe, so, maybe not." Fixing Lanyard with an unintelligible stare, Morphew thoughtfully champed his cigar. "There's a lot of popularity lying around loose in this town, waiting to be pinned onto the hero that puts the Lone Wolf behind bars. And you ought to know whether you've had enough."