"I beg your pardon, sir," he said meekly, "but I was up all night on a case and my temper is a bit short today. Anything I can do for you in the line of business I assure you I'll be very glad to handle."
He brought two chairs from near the wall and placed them by the table.
"Sit down, sir," Kimbarton urged; "anything you may give us to handle will receive the most excellent of attention." His eyes searched the visitor's face anxiously now.
The man in gray stood by the door, twirling his stick, mulling the situation over and trying to reach some decision. Then, with a smile of contempt at his own weakness, he walked to the table and seated himself. "Kimbarton," he said slowly, "I'm going to lay my case before you and 1 want to tell it in my own way without interruptions, mind, without any interruptions. Understand?"
"Yes, sir," said the detective, "I gotcha."
"Right! First then, my name is Van Der Cynck and I am the private secretary of Mrs. Willis Stairing, wife of the Nevada smelter magnate. Remember, no interruptions," as the detective moistened his lips with his tongue. "Jerry Longley recommended you to me. He said you were a 'damned crook' and would do anything in the world for money." He paused, but the detective remained silent and he went on again. "That's why I gave you another chance. Crooks are common. I know twenty in my own set that are fully as crooked as you, but Longley says that you have brains and can use them. That's what I'm looking for,—crooked brains.
"Three years ago I met Ethel Clagdon at a house-party at Saranac. It was the first time I had seen her for about ten years, and she had changed from a long-legged, freckle-faced kid into a magnificent looking woman. I did not know her at first, but she recognized me at once and greeted me most cordially with outstretched hands."
Van Der Cynck raised his hand warningly to Kimbarton, who had straightened up in his chair and was gaping at him, stupid with amazement.
"'Ethel Clagdon,' she replied to my salutation. 'Wyndham was my uncle's name, Billy; I had no right to it. Oh, that glorious summer! I shall never forget it. And you—you haven't changed a bit. Come over and sit down, Billy.' She led me to a chair away from the rest of the crowd and we began to talk over old times.
"'It was always money, money, money,' she said. 'Wherever I went, even when a child, people forgot to look at me. The Clagdon millions blinded them. They didn't care whether I was an ugly duckling or a bird of paradise; whether I was an angel or an imp; it was all one to them. I reflected money, and to stand in the glow of that reflection was all they craved. Billy, I was so sick of it. Never an honest opinion; never a kindly impulse. They were drunk with the thought of so much gold, and I was fawned on and petted until—well, I couldn't stand it, and so summers I would go to visit Uncle Tim and I told every one my name was Wyndham. The summer I met you was the first of six, and the
