Gilbert looked pityingly at the fat man.
"He says she is in Tom Hale's apartment?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Well, what of it?"
There was menace in Gilbert’s voice.
"Nothing," said George quietly, "except that she was there all night last night."
Stephen Gilbert swayed, took a step forward.
"You dirty—you dirty—"
"Wait! Wait!"
The detective was on his feet, between the men. He held out his hands, conciliarly.
"Wait! Wait!" he mumbled. "No fight! No fight!"
"Who are you?" Gilbert growled.
"Joe Pearl, private dick."
"Do you say what this man says?" Pearl nodded.
"You lie!" cried Gilbert.
George held up his hand.
"It might," he said, "be a good idea not to disturb your wife."
Gilbert lowered his tone.
"You both lie!" he repeated.
"It might," said George, "be a good idea to come and see if we lie."
Gilbert hesitated. He hadn’t thought of that. He was sure they lied—they lied about Cleo. Yes, he'd go and see—go and prove they lied.
Without a word he walked toward the hall—to go to his room and dress.
In the doorway he turned. His face was livid under his tousled white hair.
"I'll go," he said. "And if you lie, George Lowe, I'Il—I'll kill you."
George smiled.
Joe Pearl stared blankly at the wall.
CHAPTER II
Two Visitors
SOME one was ringing the bell of Tom Hale's apartment in Sixty-Fourth Street. One o'clock in the morning! Some one was ringing the bell in short, peremptory jerks.
Brr-ring, brr-ring, brr-ring.
No answer.
Brr-ring, brr-ring, brr-ring.
There was a click in the latch, and two men shoved the door open, retreating hurriedly into the warm hallway from the icy blasts of a raw December night. The men had the collars of their heavy overcoats close around their necks. Stephen Gilbert and George Lowe.
They walked through the hallway in silence, entered the elevator in silence, rode to the sixth floor.
Again a bell rang—at the hall door of Hale's apartment.
Tom Jokes
In a moment the door flew open—wide—and Hale, in bathrobe, stood staring at them. There was a slight flush on his young face. He stared at them speculatively, apprehensively.
For many seconds the trio stood silent—looking at one another. The eyes of Stephen Gilbert seemed to bore through Hale. The young man shifted uneasily under the scrutiny.
"Hello, Tom," said Gilbert, friendly, softly.
"How-da-do, Mr. Gilbert," said Tom Hale nervously.
"I'm fine, Tom," said Gilbert.
There was another awkward silence. All three stood staring.
"Good evening, Mr. Hale," said Lowe sweetly.
The youth flushed crimson.
"Hello, you," he said.
There was a contemptuous twang to the words. They seemed to help him to regain his composure.
He made a stiff bow.
"Come in, gentlemen."
He turned and led the way to the interior of the apartment, his attitude indifferent, his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe.
He drew up chairs in the living room.
"Be seated, gentlemen."
