Distance did not serve to soften the strong, sonorous voice. The wire carried the sound perfectly. The voice was a familiar one to the detective, that of an old friend in police circles, and Chick laughed audibly. “It’s easy to recognize a voice that rings true,” said he. “How are you, Lieutenant Lang?” “Fine!” came the answer. “But who are you?” “Chickering Carter.” “Oh, ho! Chick, eh?” Lang’s sonorous laugh could be heard. “Glad to hear from you. Where are you?” “On a case down Shelby way.” “I heard that Nick was in that section. Something doing?” “Plenty, Lang, and then some.” “That just about suits you, I suppose. How can I aid you?” “I want hurry-up information about a woman.” “What name?” “Janet Payson.” “You’ll not have to wait long,” cried Lang, laughing. “I can supply you right off the reel.” “Good!” Chick cried. “Do you know her?” “Only professionally,” Lang responded. “She’s pretty well known here by the boys in brass buttons.” “What about her, Ned?” “Fly!” Lang said tersely. “As fly as one often meets.” “A crook?” Chick inquired. “Crooked, but not a crook. I don’t know that she has ever been arrested. She devotes her attractions to bleeding any easy mark that comes her way. She is known here as Jaunty Janet.” “I’ve got you,” said Chick. “Do you know where she lives?” “That’s a fat question. What am I on the force for?” Lang cried, laughing. “She has a ground-floor flat in Martin Street, No. 20.” “Correct!” Chick exclaimed. “Do you know anything about her male friends?” “No, nothing.” “Listen. I want you to do something for me.” “Come across with it, Chick, and consider it done.” “Telegraph me the result. Address me in care of the Shelby House.” “I will do so. What’s wanted?” Chick told him and returned to his room, at the door of which he now found—Patsy Garvan. “Gee! I’ve been on nettles for an hour, ever since the Southern Limited arrived,” Patsy impatiently declared, after greeting him. “I was at the station and heard about the robbery, but I saw nothing of you, or the chief, and I figured that you both were in wrong, for fair. What’s become of the chief? I’ve been here twice in search of you. Couldn’t you head off the job? What do you want for a starter? Why didn’t you——” “Cut it! Cut it!” Chick interrupted. “Bridle your tongue, or you’ll ask more questions than I could answer before daylight. Hit up a cigar and give me time to explain. You’re not all the mustard in the pot. Didn’t you know that?” “Sure I know it,” retorted Patsy. “But I’m some mustard, all the same, with a dash of tabasco thrown in. What’s eating you, anyway? Send for an ice bag and cool your block. Your hair may wilt with the heat and look like dead grass. You’d be a bird, then.” Chick laughed and lit another cigar. It was two in the morning, mind you, and both had been busy and on their nerves for eighteen hours, a sufficient excuse for impatience and irritability, which really had no sting.