The district attorney, having looked carefully to the fastenings of his windows, tucked a six shooter under his pillow and began to unlace his shoes. Came a rapping at his chamber door and the voice of his housekeeper.
"Say, Art, here's another of your infernal friends at the kitchen door. Says his name's Johnson."
The district attorney, jumping at a conclusion, immediately reached for his six-shooter. "I don't know any Johnsons. Not around here, anyway. What's he look like?"
"Middlin' tall, scrubby lot of black whiskers, talks sort of thick like."
"Pebbles under his tongue, most likely. Tell him to come into the kitchen, so I can get a look without him knowing."
"He won't come in. Says he wants you to come to the door your own self. Says it's important."
At which the district attorney was more than ever certain that the midnight visitor was Billy Wingo. "You go tell him that he'll have to come into the kitchen before I'll talk to him. Close the kitchen door most to. I can look at him through the crack."
The housekeeper departed, and the district attorney slipped off his shoes and tip-toed into the hall. The housekeeper, hair in curl papers and wearing a wrapper, met him before he reached the kitchen door.
"He says he won't come in," she told him, "and told me to tell you he wanted to see about a note for five thousand dollars he has in his pocket."
"Now I know who it is," said the district attorney. "You go to bed. I'll let him in."