The alert little man was for all the world like a terrier, ever on the scent, and scouring about in every direction.
I found McKnight at the Incubator, with his coat off, working with enthusiasm and a manicure file over the horn of his auto.
"It's the worst horn I ever ran across," he groaned, without looking up, as I came in. "The blankety-blank thing won't blow."
He punched it savagely, finally eliciting a faint throaty croak.
"Sounds like croup," I suggested. "My sister-in-law uses camphor and goose greese for it; or how about a spice poultice?"
But McKnight never sees any jokes but his own. He flung the horn clattering into a corner, and collapsed sulkily into a chair.
"Now," I said, "if you're through manicuring that horn, I'll tell you about my talk with the lady in black."
"What's wrong?" asked McKnight languidly. "Police watching her, too?"
"Not exactly. The fact is, Rich, there's the mischief to pay."
