"McFluke?" he repeated. "I don't know the name."
"I mean the murderer Jack Harpe sent to you to be taken care of," explained Racey.
Mr. Pooley continued to stare. For a long moment he made no comment.
Then he said, "Still, I don't know the name."
"If you will lean back a li'l more," Racey told him, "you can look out of the window and see two chairs in front of the Kearney House. On the right we have Bill Riley, a Wells Fargo detective from Omaha, on the left Tom Seemly from the Pinkerton Agency in San Francisco. They know something but not everything. Suppose I should spin 'em all my li'l tale of grief—what then, Mr. Pooley?"
"Still—I wouldn't know the name McFluke," maintained Mr. Pooley.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Pooley," said Racey, rising to his feet. "I shore am."
"Don't strain yoreself," advised Mr. Pooley, making a brave rustle among the papers on his desk.
"I won't," Racey said, turning at the door to bestow a last! grin upon
Mr. Pooley. "So long. Glad I called."
Mr. Pooley laughed outright. "G'by," he called after Racey as the door closed.
Mr. Pooley leaned far back in his chair. He saw Racey Dawson stop on the sidewalk in front of the two detectives. The three conversed a moment, then Racey entered the Kearney House. The two detectives remained where they were.