THE BRASS BOWL
—fix up your hat, you know," (damn Hickey! Why the devil did the fellow insist on hanging round so!) "and I will go and make arrangements."
"Th-thank you," whispered the small voice shakily.
Maitland hesitated a moment, then turned upon Hickey in sudden exasperation. His manner was enough; even the obtuse detective could not ignore it. Maitland had no need to speak.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, standing his ground manfully but with a trace more of respect in his manner than had theretofore characterized it, "but there's uh gentleman—uh—your fren' Bannerman's outside 'nd wants tuh speak tuh yeh."
"Tell him to"
"Excuse me. He says he's gottuh see yeh. If yeh don't come out, he'll come after yeh. I thought yeh'd ruther"
"That's kindly thought of," Maitland relented. "I'll be there in a minute," he added meaningly.
Hickey took an impassive face to the doorway, where, whether or not with design, he stood precisely
350
