“I don’t remember. Blinkey’s or Blankey’s, or something like that. Blinkey’s Daredevils, I think, but I’m not sure. Say, you’d better let me go home while I can walk.” “All right; you go, Willie. Were there any women in the show?” “A couple, I think—yes, I’m sure there were, because I remember the gov’nor speaking about a sort of riding-and-shooting stunt Mortimer did with some girl, a crack shot.” Barrison started. Was that the trail, then? “Much obliged to you, Willie,” he said carelessly. “There wasn’t much to tell, though, was there? Why did Dukane keep it all so dark, I wonder? I should have thought that would have been good advertising, all that cowboy stuff, and the traveling show, and the rest of it.” “I don’t know why the gov’nor does some things; no one does,” said Willie, getting to his feet with surprising steadiness, and carefully corking his precious bottle. “But he’s never given any of that stuff to the press agent, and I’ve a notion he doesn’t want it made public. I don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure he has some reason for keeping it dark. Now you know as much about it as I do, and I’d never have told you as much as that if I hadn’t started in here!” While he was wrapping up his bottle, with a painstaking deliberation which was, as yet, almost the only sign of what he had drunk, Barrison drew the little pistol from his pocket and laid it on the table. It was almost a toy, and mounted in silver gilt, a foolish-looking thing to have done such deadly harm. The letter was in heavy raised gold, a thick, squarely printed M. In the rays of the student lamp it glittered merrily, like the decoration on some frivolous trinket. “Hello!” said Willie Coster, looking dully at it from the other side of the table. “So that’s the gun that did it? Let’s see the letter.” He swayed forward to look closer. “It’s an M,” said Barrison. “You’re looking at it upside down,” said Willie; “or else it’s you that’s drunk and not me. That’s a W, man, a W! Good night!” He ambled toward the door, bearing his package clasped to his breast, and disappeared. Barrison seized the pistol and turned it around. Willie was right. The initial, seen so, was W! CHAPTER XIV A TIP—AND AN INVITATION Jim Barrison had scarcely grasped this fact when the telephone rang. In the dead silence of that hour, half after two in the morning, the shrill tinkle had a startling effect. Barrison, his fatigue forgotten, sprang to the instrument. It was Tony Clay’s voice that came to him. “I want to come up for a minute.” “Oh, confound you!” ejaculated the detective irritably. “What do you want at this hour? I’ll have to come down and let you in; the place is closed.” “I know it is. That’s why I’m calling up. I’m in the drug store at the corner, and I’ll be there as soon as you can get downstairs. All right?” “I suppose so. But I’d like to wring your neck!” “Welcome to try, old man, just a bit later. So long!”