“Do you mean to insult me, sir?”
“I do not—I—I assure you. You are fit to take charge of Scotland Yard to-morrow——. I am in earnest, indeed I am, sir.”
“Then Heaven help you,” cried Kombs, slowly raising his right arm.
I sprang between them.
“Don’t shoot!” I cried. “You will spoil the carpet. Besides, Sherlaw, don’t you see the man means well. He actually thinks it is a compliment!”
“Perhaps you are right,” remarked the detective, flinging his revolver carelessly beside his pipe, much to the relief of the third party. Then, turning to the journalist, he said, with his customary bland courtesy—
“You wanted to see me, I think you said. What can I do for you, Mr. Wilber Scribbings?”
The journalist started.
“How do you know my name?” he gasped.
Kombs waved his hand impatiently.