"Come in a second and speak to Mariquita," invited the magnate.
"No, thanks. It's late...."
Neville's elbow dug into his superior's ribs with a vicious nudge.
"... but if you insist...."
Mrs. Carstairs met them in the ante-room, greeted the inspector cordially and kissed her husband affectionately. They stood for the rest of the brief visit with their arms circled about one another. Her Spanish blood heritage was evident in her warm dark eyes and proud carriage. Equally evident, were the lines of past suffering in her face. It did not take a detective to see that here was a pair who had at last found mutual consolation.
On the way back to headquarters nothing was said. But later, while they were undressing, the colonel remarked:
"Good show. Did it throw your mind off your troubles?"
"No," said Neville curtly.
"Well," said the inspector, "a good night's sleep will. G'night."
There was no sleep that night for Billy Neville, though. He spent it mentally digesting all the stuff he had read that afternoon, and all that he had seen and heard that night. He devoted many weary hours to a review of his own mind's copy of the famous rogue's gallery at the Luna Central Base. The picture he wanted wasn't there. He wished fervently he had taken that refresher course on hypnotism when they had offered it to him two years ago. He wished he had not been such a softy as to let himself be shunted off to look at that dizzy switchboard. He should have taken a closer look at the showboat people. He wished ... but hell, what was the use? Pallas' half-sized sun was up and today was another day.