It was a few days after that first meeting that, strolling down Main Street toward Sommers’ garage, the detective stopped short, staring at two figures emerging from the garage entrance. One was Sommers, the other a fat, red-faced man with a sunburned Panama on the back of his head. A glance at this man and Mr. Larkin turned on his heel and made down a side lane at a swinging gait. Safe out of range behind a lilac hedge, he slowed up, lifted his hat from a perspiring brow and swore to himself, low and fiercely. He had recognized Gus O’Malley, private detective of Whitney & Whitney, and he knew that Whitney & Whitney were Mrs. Janney’s lawyers. Another investigation was on foot, evidently following on the lines of his own. After two days O’Malley left by the evening train and Mr. Larkin emerged from a temporary retirement, and sought coolness and solitude on the front porch. Here, when night had fallen, Willitts joined him taking a seat on the top step. The house behind them was empty of all other tenants, its open front door letting a long gush of light down the steps and across the pebbled path to the gate. It was a warm night, heavy and breathless, and Mr. Larkin, in his shirt sleeves, lolled comfortably, his chair tilted back, his feet on the railing. The place where he sat was shaded with vines, and he was discernible as a long, out-stretched bulk, detailless in the shadow. Willitts had good news to impart; that afternoon he had been to Council Oaks to see Mr. Ferguson who had engaged him as valet. It was an A1 place, the pay high, the duties light, Mr. Ferguson known to be generous and easy tempered. Congratulations were in order from Mr. Larkin, and if they lacked in warmth Willitts did not appear to notice it. A pause fell, and his next remark caused the detective to deflect his gaze from the darkling street to the head of the steps: "Did you notice a chap about here yesterday—a fat, untidy looking man in a Panama hat and a brown sack suit?" Mr. Larkin had and wanted to know where Willitts had seen him. "In Sommers’ garage. He was hiring a motor, wanted to see the country—and Sommers telling him I knew it well, asked me to go with him." "Did you go?" "I did; I had nothing else to do. We went a long way, through Berkeley and beyond. He’s what you’d call here ’some talker’ and curious—I’d say very curious if you asked me." "Curious about what?" "Everything in the neighborhood, but especially the robbery." "Did he have any theories about it?" "None that I hadn’t heard before." The detective laughed: "That accounts for the drive—hoped he’d get some racy gossip about the family out of you." "Maybe that _was_ his idea." "Of course it was. I’ll bet he pumped you about Price." "I don’t know that I’d call it pumping—he did ask some questions."