"Detectives!" said Beecher, amazed.
"You bet. I don't trust my own, when I've got anything that's got to be done right. I don't trust any one man; I put two on it. My dear fellow, the crooks that pick your pocket or break into your house are only amateurs. The real criminal, the criminal of brains, joins a police force, becomes a detective, a clerk, goes slowly, gets to be a cashier or president of a bank. You think I'm joking. Not at all. Look here; just stop and think it over, and you won't laugh. For every bank president who takes the funds of his bank, speculates, and loses, how many do you think win out and never get caught?"
"That's so," said Gunther thoughtfully.
"It's too big a subject," said McKenna, smiling. "I shake hands every day with gentlemen who ought to be breaking rocks. Now, let's get back to business. Mr. Beecher, what did you notice of any kind last night that would make you suspect any one? I don't mean opinions, but eyes."
Beecher hesitated an interval that did not escape the notice of the detective.
"Nothing," he said at last, unwilling to mention the name of Nan Charters. He added, to cover the hesitation: "I suspected Garraboy, but I admit there's no proof—personal dislike."
"Why do you dislike him?"
Beecher shrugged his shoulder and his glance went to one side.
"Mr. Gunther, will you get me my office?" said McKenna, suddenly looking at his watch. "You know the number."
Gunther disappeared in the hall in search of the telephone.