"Where the deuce are we going?" said Beecher, suddenly aware of the swift flight through the now deserted regions of the lower city.
"Down to McKenna's offices."
"As late as this?"
"Guess these days keep him pretty busy."
"Didn't he say anything about his clue?"
"Said he'd traced the history of the stone."
They soon came to a stop in one of the blocks on Broadway within a stone's throw of old Trinity, and, descending, entered a dingy four-story building pinched in among the skyscrapers. At the second flight of worm-eaten stairs, Gunther pushed open a smoky glass door and entered a short antechamber inclosed in sanded glass with sliding pigeon-holes for observation. Their arrival being expected, they were immediately shown down a contracted hallway studded with doors, to an open room, comfortably furnished, with a fire burning in the grate.
"Join you in a moment, gentlemen," said McKenna, nodding around the door of the adjoining room.
Gunther unceremoniously helped himself at the open box of cigars.
"Ted," he said enthusiastically, "why the deuce do the novelists concoct their absurdly stalking detectives, who deduce everything at a glance, with their impossible logical processes? Don't they see the real thing is so much bigger? It's not the fake individual mind that's wonderful; it's the system—this system. A great agency like this is simply an expression of society itself—organized order against unorganized disorder. It's an unending struggle, and the odds are all on one side. By George, what impresses me is the completeness with which society has organized itself—made use of all inventions, telephone, telegraph, the photograph, the press, everything turned on the criminal to run him down. For a hundred detectives employed here, there are a thousand allies, in every trade, in every depot, in every port, along every line of travel. When you think of the agencies that McKenna can stir up by a word, then you begin to realize the significance of the detective in the structure of society."