“Did I ever tell you just what happened that evening in San Francisco after I saw you off on the ferry with your bag?”
“The last I saw of you,” Brainard replied, “you were on the run to the telephone booth to get your beat about me and Krutzmacht to your paper!”
“Well, after I ’phoned the story I streaked it back to Krutzmacht’s office. I fancied there might be something doing there after the woman got loose from the safe. There was! She had the marshal’s office and the police department—I don’t know but the fire brigade too—all up there buzzing, and she was trying to raise Crane,—you know the big railroad gun on the other side? She’d kept that telephone working ever since Peters threw the combination. If you had seen the temper she was in, you might have left her in that safe somewhat longer to cool off.... She seems to have quieted down a good deal. But I could see signs of her old temper this evening. I don’t believe adversity has improved it materially.”
“Probably not!” Brainard remarked, yawning and looking at his watch. “Three o’clock! Our friends made the time pass quickly.”
Farson did not move from his position before the dying fire. The late hour made no impression upon him, and Brainard did not seem anxious to get to bed.
“What are you going to do?” the young man asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing!” Farson exclaimed in surprise. “You don’t mean to say—”
“I will let Lorilla make the next move—it’s up to her.”
“You won’t take Hollinger’s hint?”