"Hello, Faircloth!" called a laughing voice. "How's the Cypress Hills hermitage?"
"Oh, Stamford!" Faircloth was thinking rapidly. "What's the little editor got on his mind now? Make it brief: I'm expecting the Inspector to call up."
"Why has who been murdered by whom?"
Faircloth laughed. "The brevity of it deserves more than I can tell you. Who told you—anything?"
"The Inspector."
"Then why not get it all from him?"
Stamford chuckled into the telephone at the other end.
"I got the impression that my arrival at the barracks was inopportune. The extent of the particulars I got was a particular request to betake myself elsewhere. I betook. I came to a friend."
"And the friend must fail you. You're too hopeful for the West, Stamford. I'd tell you all I dare—you know that. No, not a bit of use pleading."
"Then," said Stamford, "permit me to tell you to your face that when next I see you I'll——"