“Hold on, son,” and Clifford’s host halted the talk by raising one hand like a traffic policeman and with the other reaching for the dinner card. While the long order was being dictated, Clifford gazed impatiently across at his companion, wondering what this appointment was about. His host was a large man who once might have been bulbous, but who now had deflated little balloons of skin hanging beneath eyes and chin and jaws. His few short gray hairs were divided into two precisely equal portions; his eyebrows were entirely gone, and of eyelashes he had almost none; his eyes were smallish, gray, cunning, genial. He made Clifford fancy, with those eyes of his so good-naturedly cynical, and with his large, outstanding ears, that here might be a satyr who had forsaken gay forests for city and had at length grown into grandfatherly days. “Well, now, Uncle George--what’s all this about?” Clifford demanded when the order was in. “Not so fast, son,--not so fast,” slowly remonstrated Uncle George, who, as far as Broadway’s knowledge went, was no one’s Uncle George, but who was known by no other name. “Let’s wait until we’ve packed away some of the freight that waiter’s going to bring us.” He blinked his lashless lids, and drawled on. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you--six months. I just wanted to give you the once over, and ask you how was trade.” “Trade’s good--considering.” The old head nodded. “Yes, considering that you’re a detective who’s on the square. There’s not much chance for that sort, son,--not in this here widely advertised Christian civilization of ours. At least, not much chance to make a large private collection of coin.” “I’m not in this primarily to make money. I thought you understood that.” “You sure are a queer guy, son,” pronounced the old man. “I’ve heard you spiel off your ideas--you’re not primarily a thief-taker--you’re in this to help people out of the trouble. A hell of an idea for a detective!” “You know as well as I do, Uncle George, that most of the people that get into trouble, or seem to be bad--well, they personally are not so much to blame. They’ve been born and raised in bad conditions--they’ve never had a chance--have never really been able to tell what was right or wrong, and have never had a chance to choose the right--” “Come up for air, son,--come up for air,” cut in the old man. “Son, that’s nice music, but it’s all bunk. You’re an awful example of what a college education can do to a man. Now you just listen to your Uncle George. You know me--everybody knows me. I’ve been in about every crooked game known to the human race and the higher animals, including managing shows--and I’ve never been pinched because I was too clever for the coppers, and the coppers know it, too. I tell you I know life up and down and across the middle--and I tell you that we’ve all got a streak of crookedness--every damned one of us!” “If that’s so,” smiled Clifford, “then why are you always helping crooks?”