“Oh, you can’t see Mr. Conne. He’s a very busy man. What do you want?”
“I wanta job.”
“We don’t need any boys now.” The young lady yawned discreetly. “If you want to leave your name and address we’ll send for you if an opening occurs. Did someone send you here?” she asked, handing him a slip of paper and a pencil.
“Nope. I bin wantin’ to work for Mr. Conne since I first read about him in the papers. I wanta learn from him how to be a regular detective like him. That’s the kinda job I want.”
At this naïve confession the girl laughed while Skippy, embarrassed, but still persistent, stood waiting. “So lemme see him?” he urged.
“No, certainly not,” the girl answered a little tersely. “I told you that Mr. Conne is a very busy man and he’s a very important man—if you know what that means. He doesn’t see boys. If we should need an office boy, we can send for you,” she added with an air of finality.
It was a crucial moment to Skippy. He gave a furtive look toward a closed door, beyond which, in some holy of holies, he imagined the great Carlton Conne to be seated. He visualized that shrewd mouth and those keen eyes which he had seen pictured in the newspapers at the astonishing climax of the famous Hawley murder case. But there was no hope. Skippy Dare was baffled by a mere girl at the very threshold of the lion’s den.
Suddenly the door opened and a trim looking young man emerged. It was not the great Carlton Conne. Very casually, it seemed, he closed the door and leaned against it.
“He one of ’em?” he asked briskly.
“Oh, no,” said the girl.