to his lip; his dresser waiting to hand him a wig and a revolver; the room picturesquely hung with costumes and disguises, handcuffs and leg-irons, dodgers that offered rewards for desperate captures (“dead or alive”) and sets of burglar’s tools and the weapons of outlawry—the latter arranged decoratively on the walls after the manner of a collection of trophies.
And Barney’s better judgment accepted that picture from his inebriated young imagination without really knowing that he had accepted it—until he was called from the outer public office of the bureau into Babbing’s private room, and found the famous detective sitting at a table-desk, in a swivel chair, reading his morning mail like the manager of any successful business at work in the office of any successful business manager. “Sit down,” Babbing said, without looking at him.
Barney sat down, against the wall. He was conscious of the stimulating disappointment—the interested surprise in disillusion—
