"Then," said Quirk, rattling some coins in a pocket beneath his round abdomen, "I guess you’d better get busy." Donovan’s eyes narrowed. "What’s your game, Quirk?" he asked. "It’s not _my_ game, Hughie," smiled the lawyer. "Well, you’re not in it for your health, I know that damn well. If it ain’t your game, whose is it?" "I don’t know for sure," said Quirk. "Oh, come on. You know me: you’ve got to cough up if you want me to help." Quirk did know the police-lieutenant. He had expected all along to be forced into an admission; but he was aware that by letting Donovan suspect reluctance he could the more speedily gain his point. "Well," he said, "it didn’t come to me straight, but I’ll tell you how it did." He embarked upon a narrative brief and abounding in gaps that Donovan’s imagination was not, however, slow to fill as Quirk intended it should. The officer nodded comprehendingly. "Then who’s at the back of it?" he asked. Quirk walked quietly to the door. He opened it suddenly: nobody had been listening at the keyhole; so he turned to Donovan and said a certain name. The police-lieutenant’s red face grew redder. He opened and shut his mouth twice before he spoke. "Again?" he muttered. Quirk nodded. "That’s all I know about it," he said. "Well, why in hell didn’t you tell me this right off at first?" asked the querulous Donovan. "Because I didn’t think I’d have to," pleaded Quirk. "Have to? Looks to me like the have-to business all came on to me! How long’ve I got to put this across?" Quirk appeared to consider. "You’d have to begin with the first thing right away," he said, "and let me know about that. If it didn’t work, I’d get my party to give me fuller instructions, and then I guess you’d have eighteen days." "I’m gettin’ sick of the whole game," said Donovan. "So am I," said the lawyer blithely. "But what are we going to do about it? We’ve got to make a living, don’t we?" "I ain’t so sure of that." "Anyhow, we’ve got to buy shoes for our kids, Hughie." "Oh, come on," muttered Donovan, "let’s talk business." They talked business until Quirk remembered another appointment and had to leave. When the lawyer had gone, Donovan put his head into the large room next his own and called to a sleepy officer seated at a desk. "Anderson," he asked, "where’s Patrolman Guth?" Anderson yawned. "Just come in, Lieutenant," he vouchsafed: "him and Mitchell. He’s in the locker-room." "Send him in here." Donovan closed the door and sat at his table, frowning at its surface, until Guth entered. "Hello, Bill," said the Lieutenant. Guth was as big as the Lieutenant and more powerful. He would have been handsome, but his mouth had been torn in some obscure street-fight, and the scar from this wound carried the line of his lips to the left corner of his jaw-bone. "_How’re_ you, Lieutenant?" he replied. Donovan resumed his study of the table. "What’s Reddy Rawn doin’ these days?" he presently continued.