Nick Carter sauntered into police headquarters about ten o’clock that morning, and found Chief Gleason in his private office.
“Too busy to see me?” he inquired carelessly when the chief looked up and then swung quickly around in his swivel chair.
“Too busy? I should say not!” he exclaimed, with a perceptible frown. “I was expecting to see you.”
“That so?” queried Nick, while he drew up a chair.
“Very much so,” Gleason said brusquely. “See here, Carter, what are you putting over on me?”
“Putting over on you?” Nick’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Exactly.”
“I don’t quite get you, Gleason.”
“You ought to get me. Why haven’t I seen you since yesterday morning? Why haven’t you reported? In other words, Carter, what are you doing about this Todd murder and these other cases?”
“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said Nick, who had been wondering what was coming. “I had begun to fear there was something wrong. Putting over on you, eh? Did you really expect me, Gleason, to run in here every hour or two and report the progress of my work? That’s not my way of doing business.”