“Going to be something doing in the humidity line to-night,” he said. “You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch.”
Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, nervous, sighed and frowned a little.
“Yes,” said he, “we always have cool nights in Floralhurst, especially in the winter.”
A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley.
“I’ve found where she lives,” he announced in the portentous half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his fellow men.
Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude. But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his liking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan amusements.
“Here is the address,” said the detective in a natural tone, being deprived of an audience to foil.
Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth’s dingy memorandum book. On it were pencilled the words “Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East ––––th Street, care of Mrs. McComus.”
“Moved there a week ago,” said the detective. “Now, if you want any shadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line as anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can send in a daily typewritten report, covering—”
“You needn’t go on,” interrupted the broker. “It isn’t a case of that kind. I merely wanted the address. How much shall I pay you?”