A stranger entered. Sherlaw Kombs did not change his lounging attitude.
'I wish to see Mr. Sherlaw Kombs, the detective,' said the stranger, coming within the range of the smoker's vision.
'This is Mr. Kombs,' I remarked at last, as my friend smoked quietly, and seemed half-asleep.
'Allow me to introduce myself,' continued the stranger, fumbling for a card.
'There is no need. You are a journalist,' said Kombs.
'Ah,' said the stranger, somewhat taken aback, 'you know me, then.'
'Never saw or heard of you in my life before.'
'Then how in the world—'
'Nothing simpler. You write for an evening paper. You have written an article slating the book of a friend. He will feel badly about it, and you will condole with him. He will never know who stabbed him unless I tell him.'
'The devil!' cried the journalist, sinking into a chair and mopping his brow, while his face became livid.