"Don't mention it," says I. "It's been a pleasure."'
That was no dream, either. Say, it did me most as much good as a trip to Coney, stringin' them trussed up keyhole gazers.
"Your names'll look nice in the paper," says I, "and when your cases come up at Special Sessions maybe your friends'll all have reserved seats. Sweet pair of pigeon toed junk collectors, you are!"
If they wa'n't sick of the trailin' business before I turned 'em loose, it wa'n't my fault. From the remarks they made as they went down the stairs I suspicioned they was some sore on me. But now and then I runs across folks that I'm kind of proud to have feel that way. Private detectives is in that class.
I was still on the grin, and thinkin' how real cute I'd been, when I hears heavy steps on the stairs, and in blows Rossiter's old man, short of breath and wall eyed.
"Where's he gone?" says he.
"Which one?" says I.
"Why, that fool boy of mine!" says the old man. "I've just had word that he was here less than an hour ago."
"You got a straight tip," says I.
"Well, where did he go from here?" says he.