I could hear him groan over the wire. "Hang Josie!" says he. "See here, McCabe, I've had a deuce of a time with that case. Must have been something wrong with the address, you know."
"How's that?" says I.
"Why," says he, "it led me to a smelly, top-floor flat up in Harlem, and all I could find there was this impossible person, Mrs. Fletcher Shaw. Of all the sniveling, lying, vicious-tongued old harridans! Do you know what she did? Chased me down four flights of stairs with a broom, just because I insisted on seeing Josie Vernon!"
"You don't say!" says I. "And you such a star at this knight-errant business! Still want to see Josie, do you?"
"Why, of course," says he.
"Then come down to the studio," says I. "She's here."
"Wha-a-at!" he gasps. "I—I'll be right down."
And inside of ten minutes he swings in, all dolled up elegant with a pink carnation in his buttonhole. You should have seen the smile come off his face, though, when he sees what's occupyin' my desk chair. He'd have done a sneak back through the door too, if I hadn't blocked him off.
"Steady there, J. Bayard!" says I. "On the job, now!"
"But—but this isn't Josie Vernon," says he. "It's that Mrs.——"