it in my valise. Snap it shut. Hurry. Report to the office to-morrow morning at eight-thirty.” He was at the telephone. “Give me the house detective,” he said. “What? Mr. Dohn, your house detective.” He put his hand over the transmitter. “How much have you been earning?”
“Six dollars a week—with the tips.”
“You’ll start at twelve. Hurry up. Get out of here. To-morrow morning at eight-thirty.”
Barney started for the door, reluctantly.
“Hello. Dohn? This is Babbing. Get up here as quick as you can with a doctor. That Chicago swindler in eight-eighteen has shot himself. Through the mouth. He ’s blown the back of his head out. Hurry up!”
Barney, slamming the door behind him, fled down the hall, frightened, aghast, but with a high exultant inner voice still crooning triumphantly: “I ’m a de-tec-tive! I ’m a de-tec-tive!” Through the mouth! The back of his head out! Even in his horror there was a
