"No, indeed," she said, little guessing that Clancy had indulged in a Japanese grimace behind her back, thereby informing his chief that "The Yacht Mystery" was still maintaining its claim to figure as one of the most sensational crimes the Bureau had investigated during many a year. Steingall, wishing to put the girl wholly at ease, affected to consult some notes on his desk, but Winifred was too wrought up to keep silent. "The gentleman who brought me here told me that I would be required to give evidence concerning the murder of Mr. Ronald Tower," she said. "Believe me, sir, that unfortunate gentleman's name was unknown to me before I read it in this morning's paper. I have no knowledge of the manner of his death other than is contained in the account printed here in this newspaper." She proffered the newspaper purchased before lunch, which she still held in her left hand. The impulsive action broadened Steingall's smile. He was still utterly at a loss to account for this well-mannered girl's queer environment. "Why," he cried, "I quite understand that. Mr. Clancy didn't tell you we regarded you as a desperate crook, did he?" Winifred yielded to the chief's obvious desire to lift their talk out of the rut of formality. She could not help being interested in these two men, so dissimilar in their characteristics, yet each so utterly unlike the somewhat awesome personage she would have sketched if asked to define her idea of a "detective." Clancy, who had taken a chair at the side of the table, sat on it as though he were an automaton built of steel springs and ready to bounce instantly in any given direction. Steingall's huge bulk lolled back indolently. He had been smoking when the others entered, and a half-consumed cigar lay on an ash-tray. Winifred thought it would be rather amusing if she, in turn, made things comfortable. "Please don't put away your cigar on my account," she said. "I like the smell of good tobacco." "Ha!" cackled Clancy. "Thank you," said Steingall, tucking the Havana into a corner of his mouth. The two men exchanged glances, and Winifred smiled. Steingall's look of tolerant contempt at his assistant was distinctly amusing. "That little shrimp can't smoke, Miss Bartlett," he explained, "so he is an anti-tobacco maniac." "You wouldn't care to take poison, would you?" and Clancy shot the words at Winifred so sharply that she was almost startled. "No. Of course not," she agreed. "Yet that is what that mountain of brawn does during fourteen hours out of the twenty-four. Nicotine is one of the deadliest poisons known to science. Even when absorbed into the tissues in minute doses it corrodes the brain and atrophies the intellect. Did you see how he grinned when you described that vile weed as 'good tobacco'? Now, you don't know good, meaning real, tobacco from bad, do you?"