"Is there—is there any trouble?" asked the man at the window.
"Yes," said George, "there's plenty of trouble."
He resumed his walking as the window went down. He lit another cigarette from the stub of the one he held. His companion leaned against the pole, silent and patient.
When Stephen Gilbert, clad in bathrobe, opened the door, Lowe was directly in front of it.
"Mr. Gilbert," he said tersely, "me and this man have got to see you."
Some Information
Gilbert merely nodded and motioned for the pair to enter. He eyed them speculatively as they came into the hall.
George Lowe, thirty-five, fastidious, fashionable, passed Gilbert without a word.
He went into the living room and took it upon himself to turn on the lights.
The man at his heels was a stranger to Gilbert.
He was middle-aged, fat, placid, slouchy. He nodded rather awkwardly as he followed the other into the living room.
It seemed to Gilbert, holding the open door, that there was something ridiculous about the whole proceeding. He was curious, a little apprehensive, but also amused. He had a faint smile on his face as he went in to receive his guests.
George Lowe stood before the fireplace, staring at the floor, frowning. He looked up quickly as Gilbert entered.
"Mr. Gilbert," he said solemnly, "I came here to tell you that I am not going to marry Cleo."
Gilbert started. He hadn't expected that. He looked, amazed, at the stranger, sprawled indolently in an easy chair. He hadn't thought that George would discuss a family affair before a stranger. He considered his daughter's engagement a distinctly family affair.
Lowe caught the significance of his look.
"That's all right," he said tersely. "That man's all right—he's a detective."
"A what?"
Gilbert's voice rose crescendo.
"A detective," repeated George. "I brought a detective with me to announce that the engagement is off. I think it is my privilege—my duty."
He talked with stilted emphasis, like a man delivering a eulogy or a funeral oration.
Gilbert stared at him with unbelieving eyes. He wondered if George had suddenly gone mad. He walked slowly across the room and took a chair opposite the detective.
"Why the dramatics, George?" he inquired softly. "Why the midnight call, why the detective?"
"Because," said George, "he has obtained some information that has caused me to break the engagement and that I believe you should know."
"What!"
To Prove a Lie
Gilbert began to color.
"Yes," said George, "he has obtained some very interesting information."
He paused to light a cigarette. The eyes of Gilbert were upon him, steady, narrow, menacing.
"Go on!" Gilbert snapped.
"I will," said George.
He drew languidly at his cigarette. The detective stared blankly at the wall.
"I suppose that you believe Cleo is visiting her aunt in Poughkeepsie?"
"She isn't. Right now she is in the apartment of that young rat, Tom Hale."
Gilbert rose slowly to his feet. His face was flushed.
"You have hired a detective to follow Cleo?"
"Yes," George said.
