“Sure, Chick, it’s right. By Jove, you’re a sight for sore eyes! Come to the dining room and we’ll fire a ball. Then I’ll take you up to my studio and show you where I’m winning fame and fortune by slinging paint. That’s on the top floor. We’ll have a smoke and a good old-fashioned chat. By gracious, I’m glad to see you!”
There was no doubting it. It stuck out all over the genial, vivacious artist, and for nearly an hour Chick complied with his wishes and responded to his running fire of questions. Then, during a lull in their conversation, he turned it upon the matter more seriously engaging him.
“Now, Don, a word about my mission in Madison,” said he, dropping the end of his cigar on a tray. “I know you may be trusted to say nothing about it.”
“Not a word, Chick,” Barclay assured him. “Come on with it.”
“You read the newspapers, I suppose.”
“Only the headlines,” laughed the artist. “The details give me a confounded headache.”
“You may not know about it, then,” said Chick. “I’m here to help clear up quite a sensational mystery in this immediate locality.”
“Thunder! You don’t say so. Why, I thought the old fogies who dwell in this locality were too slow and sedate to get into anything more sensational than the death column.”
“I will confide the case to you.”
He did so briefly, merely stating the main features of the previous night, and a look of mingled surprise and amusement then appeared in the artist’s eyes.