“Yeh––I guess so. It’s only one of your stenographers.”
This checked Davidge. By a quaint coincidence he was about to call on one of his stenographers. Larrey amended his first statement: “Leastways, I’ll say she calls herself a stenographer. But that’s only her little camouflage. She’s not on the level.”
Davidge realized that the stenographer he was wooing was not on the level. She was in the clouds. But his curiosity was piqued. He motioned Larrey to a chair and took another.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Well, it’s this Miss Webling. Know anything about her?”
“Something,” said Davidge. He was too much amused to be angry. He thought that Larrey was another of those amateur detectives who flattered Germany by crediting her with an omnipresence in evil. He was a faithful reader of Ellis Parker Butler’s famous sleuth, and he grinned at Larrey. “Well, Mr. Philo Gubb, go on. Your story interests me.”
Larrey reddened. He spoke earnestly, explained who he 225 was, showed his credentials, and told what he knew of Miss Webling. He added what he imagined Davidge knew.
Davidge found the whole thing too preposterous to be insolent. His chivalry in Mamise’s behalf was not aroused, because he thought that the incident would make a good story to tell her. He drew Larrey out by affecting amazed incredulity.
Larrey explained: “She’s an old friend of ours. We got the word from the British to pick the lady up when she first landed in this country. She was too slick for us, I guess, because we never got the goods on her. We gave her up after a couple of weeks. Then her trail crossed Nicky Easton’s once more.”
“And who is Nicky Easton?”