"You out-of-town chaps will be the people, with your katydids and
moonlight and long drinks and things out on the front porch."
Hartley, twenty-nine, serious, thin, good-looking, nervous, sighed
and frowned a little.
"Yes," said he, "we always have cool nights in Floralhurst, especially
in the winter."
A man with an air of mystery came in the door and went up to Hartley.
"I've found where she lives," he announced in the portentous
half-whisper that makes the detective at work a marked being to his
fellow men.
Hartley scowled him into a state of dramatic silence and quietude.
But by that time Robbins had got his cane and set his tie pin to his
liking, and with a debonair nod went out to his metropolitan
amusements.
"Here is the address," said the detective in a natural tone, being
deprived of an audience to foil.
Hartley took the leaf torn out of the sleuth's dingy memorandum book.
On it were pencilled the words "Vivienne Arlington, No. 341 East
----th Street, care of Mrs. McComus."
"Moved there a week ago," said the detective. "Now, if you want any
shadowing done, Mr. Hartley, I can do you as fine a job in that line
as anybody in the city. It will be only $7 a day and expenses. Can
send in a daily typewritten report, covering--"
"You needn't go on," interrupted the broker.
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