"I've almost forgotten something," she said, drawing out a chair and sitting down with a graceful sweep of her skirt. "I've forgotten that you are tired and that you have worked hard." "Not at all," said Drew. "Yes, you are tired and you have worked very hard. Harry will bear me out in that. He was just saying that you would make a good major of overseas forces. Why don't you join the army?" Drew reached into his right hand trouser pocket. He brought his hand out with a small gold badge between his fingers. "I've already joined the army," he said. "This is a Secret Service badge. Don't you know that much work can be done over on this side? A burnt warehouse, for instance, is equal to a victory for the Kaiser. My agency is almost exclusively devoted to Government work. We never mention it, though." "I see," said Loris, reaching into a pigeonhole and drawing out a small yellow check-book. "I'm glad," she added, picking up a mother-of-pearl penholder and inspecting the pen-point. "I rather thought you would do your share. I think everybody should to the limit of their pocketbook and ability. Harry is." Drew bowed slightly. "That's right, stick by Harry," he said to himself. "She's a sticker and then some," he added, frowning toward the check-book and the poised pen. "Mr. Drew?" The detective took one step in her direction. He waited then. "Mr. Drew, how much money do I owe you? I'll pay you out of my account until the estate is settled." The detective smiled broadly. "Nothing," he said, toying with his watch chain. "I don't think you owe me anything in this case." "Oh, but I do!" "I don't think so. Your father retained me. He was--was slain through my own carelessness. I think I owe you something." "I can't let it remain that way." Loris turned and widened her eyes. A tiny pout sweetened her mouth. Nichols came across the rugs and stood by her side. He turned to Drew. "That wouldn't be fair," he said. "You certainly earned your fee in this case. Why, you look five years older than when you came up into my rooms with that little pistol!" Drew touched his mustache. He closed his lips. Fatigue swept over him as he said huskily: "I've aged, yes. Well, I guess I have. The responsibility was more than I expected." "How much?" asked Loris, opening the check-book. Drew raised his eyes to the ceiling. A faint smile brightened his olive skin and brought out the fullness of his cheeks. "Five thousand dollars," he said, without glancing at Loris. She dipped the pen into the ink well, leaned her elbow on the leaf of the writing desk and hastily scratched a check with angular writing which had certainly been cultivated in a select boarding school. She turned, waved the check in the air, then rose and advanced toward the detective, who had not lowered his eyes. "Thank you," she said, holding out the oblong of tinted paper. "I want to thank you."