DISTRICT-ATTORNEY WICKSON
It was Collins's opinion that the District Attorney somewhat lacked the instinct of self-preservation. He admitted that Wickson could not have done his peculiar work for the community if he had had that instinct very highly developed. And consequently he accepted as natural Wickson's lack of attention to the warning that he must be "careful."
Wickson had glanced at his desk calendar, at the mention of elections—as if to figure out how many weeks remained had turned the yesterday's leaf to arrive at the day's date, and had found a note in his own handwriting. He reached at once to his desk-telephone. "Send Arnett in," he directed, "as soon as he comes. Yes." ...
"He's leaving for New York this afternoon," he explained to the detective. "I promised him a letter." He began to scratch squares and crosses on his blotter with a dry pen. "Do you think Bradford or any of the big ones know about Cooney?"
"Not if they can keep from knowing it. That's the sort of thing they make it their business not to know."
"Come in!" Wickson called to a knock at the door. And, "Hello, Jack!" he greeted the sculptor. "I nearly forgot about you. What time does your train go?"
"It doesn't go," Arnett said, taking the outstretched hand. "I'm staying to do a portrait bust of old Bradford."
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