"I do. Lock them both up, and come take the telephone at the table there. Press down Number One button. Then call every taxi stand in the city (find their numbers at the back of the telephone directory) and ask if they picked up Silent Steve at or near the Gold Nugget yesterday afternoon about one; Steve Skeels--or any other man. If so, where'd they take him? Get me?" "All hunk, Jerry." He came briskly to the job. I returned to Miss Wallace, with, "Ready, Barbara?" "Yes, Mr. Boyne." "Take dictation: "'We offer five hundred dollars--' You authorize that, Worth?" "Sure. What's it for?" "Never mind. You keep at your job. 'Five hundred dollars for the arrest of Silent Steve Skeels--' Wait. Make that 'arrest or detention,' Got it?" "All right, Mr. Boyne." --"'Skeels, gambler, who left San Francisco about one in the afternoon yesterday March sixth. Presumed he went by train; maybe by auto. He is man thirty-eight to forty; five feet seven or eight; weighs about one hundred forty. Hair, light brown; eyes light blue--' Make it gray-blue, Barbara." Worth glanced up from where he was jotting down telephone numbers to drawl, "You know who you're describing there?" "Yes--Steve Skeels." I saw Miss Wallace give him a quick look, a little shake of her head, as she said to me. "Go on--please, Mr. Boyne." "'Hair parted high, smoothed down; appears of slight build but is well muscled. Neat dresser, quiet, usually wears blue serge suit, black derby hat, black shoes.'" "By Golly--you see it now yourself, don't you, Jerry?" "I see that you're holding up work," I said impatiently. And now it was the quiet girl who came in with. "Who gave you this description of Steve Skeels? I mean, how many people's observation of the man does this represent?" "One. My own," I jerked out. "I know Skeels; have known him for years." "Years? How many?" It was still the girl asking. "Since 1907--or thereabouts." "Was he always a gambler?" she wanted to know. "Always. Ran a joint on Fillmore Street after the big earthquake, and before San Francisco came back down-town." "A gambler," she spoke the word just above her breath, as though trying it out with herself. "A man who took big chances--risks." "Not Steve," I smiled at her earnestness. "Steve was a piker always--a tin-horn gambler. Hid away from the police instead of doing business with them. Take a chance? Not Steve." Worth had left the telephone and was leaning over her shoulder to read what she had typed. "Exactly and precisely," he said, "the same words you had in that other fool description of him." "Of whom?" "Clayte." Worth let me have the one word straight between the eyes, and I leaned back in my chair, the breath almost knocked out of me by it. By an effort I pulled myself together and turned to the girl: "Take dictation, please: Skeel's eyes are wide apart, rather small but keen--"