“You’re clever, too, son. You’re the only one I’ve ever figured might beat Bradley in a finish fight. And then you’re a queer party, Bob,--you’re square,” he drawled. “I’ve traveled up and down this world of he-and-she grafters, shoplifters, safeblowers, and sure-thing business men, and after it all you know it’s right pleasant to sit down in the shade of a square guy. And besides, son,” he added, “I said I admired Bradley because he was clever; I didn’t say I liked him as a friend. Now, you, Bob, somehow I like you.” “Thanks, Uncle George.” There was a moment’s silence. “But that’s not what you got me here to tell me.” “Perhaps not, son. But what’s the hurry? Queer, ain’t it,” he meditated, “how all the big cops, when they leave the Police Department, open a private detective agency? I hear Bradley’s doing great business since he started out as a private detective.” “Licensed blackmailer--that’s what he is!” “Sure, son, that’s what they all are. A client tells a private sleuth secrets, and retains him to get information about some other party--and is held up for a big fee. The sleuth gets the information, and then makes the second party pay by threatening to expose him--second hold-up; and then makes the first client pay again by threatening to expose the original secret--third hold-up. Oh, it’s a rich game Bradley’s switched into!” “Once more, Uncle George--that’s not what you got me here to tell me.” “Perhaps it’s not really so much I’ve got to tell you. Mebbe it’s occurred to you”--meditatively, slowly--“that since the big upset you gave him, Bradley isn’t exactly what you might call in love with you.” “Not exactly.” “Well, I heard it from a friend who’s got a friend who’s got a mother-in-law who listens to little birds--and the dope runs that Bradley is out to square matters with you.” Clifford nodded. He had expected something of the sort. “Did this little bird relay any information as to just what Bradley was going to do?” “None that got to me. But, son, I’d keep my eyes pointed in all directions, and be careful of the friends I made, and be careful of the cases I got drawn into. It may be a long time coming, and God only knows in what direction it’ll come from. Bradley knows how to handle people so they never know they’re being handled--and he’s likely to hit you through almost any one. Look out, son. This is serious. There’ll be big doings.” Clifford gazed steadily at the old worldling. Indeed, there must be something--and big!--or else Uncle George, whose general attitude in matters of morals, police, and criminals was one of genial _laissez-faire_, would not have brought him this warning. He knew from experience the craft and power of Bradley--his subtle patience in working out his designs, his patience in waiting apparently quiescent for the ripe moment--the swiftness and might with which he struck when the instant came to strike.