The Green Jacket (Mystery Classics Series). Jennette Lee

the pipe from his mouth and looked at its deadness and knocked the ashes into the tray she pushed toward him. He stowed the pipe in his pocket. "That's done!" he said.

      She was looking at him with half-amused eyes.

      His elbows rested on the chair-arms, and his fingers were crossed protectingly across his person. He shook his head once or twice.

      "Simply absurd!" he murmured.

      "I knew you would think so," said Milly. "You don't want me for a partner, then?"

      He gave her a slow look. "I want you—yes. But not on those terms!" He nodded toward the closed drawer.

      "Those are my terms," she said gently.

      "Well—" He roused himself and got up and reached for his hat. He turned to her.

      "I'll tell you what I will do," he said magnanimously. "I'll sign you for a single case——"

      "The Hudson case?" asked Milly in surprise.

      He shook his head. "Not the Hudson case—but one quite as important—one that nobody will ever solve." He said it with a little cynical smile, and she hesitated a moment. Then she opened the drawer and took out the paper and handed it to him. He reached for a pen and filled in the blank spaces and signed his name with firm hand.

      "It's for the Mason emeralds," he said. He pushed the paper toward her. "Find out who took the Mason emeralds, and you shall do what you like with the thief. The reward we split even. It's big money!"

      "Very well." She folded the paper in slow fingers. "When will you give me the history?" she asked.

      "This afternoon— Any time," he said promptly, "that you'll come down to the office. We're full of stuff on the case. I'll turn it over to you, and be glad to! We gave up the case two years ago after some of the hardest work the office ever put in on anything. I shelved it for good and all, I thought. But this morning I happened to come on a clipping in my mail announcing the death of a woman whom we had suspected." He opened his purse and took it out and handed it to her. "It's only fair to tell you, Milly, that you will never solve the case." His manner was kind as he handed it to her. "There is something uncanny in the way the Mason emeralds dropped out of the world!" And even as he said it, the mystery seemed tagging at him, beckoning him to follow it once more.

      He shrugged his shoulders with a little gesture of defeat and glanced about the quiet office, and then at Milly, standing with the clipping in her fingers, regarding him with a smile. He shook his head slowly.

      "You are making a mistake, Milly, not to come in with me. We are made to work together. You have a good mind for details, but you need me to handle the case as a whole." He spoke magnanimously and she held out her hand.

      "It's good to see you again, Tom. Yes, I'll come this afternoon. I can't tell, of course, whether I will take the case until I know more about it."

      He stared at her a minute. Then he chuckled.

      "No wonder you have the business!" he said softly, "if you treat them all like that!"

      A knock sounded on the door and she turned to it with a motion of excuse.

      The man who stood in the hall lifted his hat. "May I see Miss Newberry?" he asked.

      "I am Miss Newberry," said Milly quietly. "Will you come in?"

      And as the stranger entered and Tom passed out he was wondering about the man. All the way down in the elevator, descending to the street, he was wondering what John Kingman wanted of Milly. Tom knew the man. He was a big serum specialist. He had heard him testify in a murder case last week. Milly certainly had luck, and she had the business!

      Chapter V

       Table of Contents

      "Will you sit down?" said Milly. She motioned to the chair by the desk.

      He looked a little dubiously about the room, and then at the quiet figure that confronted him. "You are Miss Newberry?" he asked doubtingly.

      "Yes." She smiled slightly.

      He seated himself and drew a handful of papers from his pocket. From among them he selected a business-card and laid it on the desk.

      "That is my name."

      She glanced down at the minute script— "Dr. John Kingman, Serum Specialist, Room 136, Caxton Building." He was looking at her hopefully.

      "You know my name?" he asked doubtingly.

      A faint smile touched her lips. "I have heard it. Is there something I can do for you?" She pushed his card a little aside with her finger and looked at the man.

      He twisted in his seat, and stared at the window. "I want evidence collected for me. You do that, don't you?" He turned to her brusquely.

      "I do it sometimes—yes."

      He glanced at her sharply. "I was told you are the best detective in the State—for difficult cases."

      The flattery seemed to slip past the gray eyes. They were regarding him steadily.

      "Is your case difficult?" she asked.

      "Damned dif— I beg your pardon!" He chewed at a corner of his mustache—it had a short, cropped look as if it had been attacked in moments of perplexity.

      The woman's hand reached the drawer beside her, and it slid softly open. "Would you mind if I knit?" she said.

      He stared at her. "Knit! Oh!" His eye fell on the green wool with a condescending glance.

      "Go ahead," he granted.

      He laughed with a little masculine ease, and watched the needles as they moved swiftly in her fingers.

      "Women like that sort of thing," he commended. . . . "I believe if my wife had knit things like that"—he moved his hand to the green wool—"I'd never be here!"

      Her needles had come to the end of a row and they turned it deftly. She did not speak.

      The man's face relaxed a little. "I want a divorce, you know!"

      "Ye-s-s—" The word and the wool ran together in quiet assent, and the man stretched himself comfortably in his chair.

      "My wife——"

      She lifted her eyes. "You had better not tell me about it," she said. "I don't handle divorce cases."

      He stared, and sat up quickly. "You're too high-toned, I suppose!" It was a quick sneer.

      "Not high enough," she returned. "I should be glad to handle them if I knew enough. I don't. They belong to a very high grade of work."

      "You take murder cases, don't you?" he retorted.

      "Sometimes."

      "And you mean to tell me a divorce case is more difficult than a murder case?" He moved his hand cynically.

      "Much more difficult—for me," she added. "Have you tried the Corbin Agency?"

      "I don't want the Corbin Agency," he said brusquely.

      He studied her face. "You needn't be afraid of this case," he said smoothly. "It will be perfectly respectable. I want it to be respectable. That's why I came to you. . . . If you will let me tell you——"

      She turned her knitting again. "I'd rather not, please. I should be sure to get interested."

      "That's what I hoped!" he said quickly.

      "Yes—but I don't want to get interested. It blurs my mind, takes off its edge for the cases I am pledged to carry. I will give you a piece of advice if you like."

      "I am willing to pay well for it." He expanded.

      "This is not for pay. . . . No matter what your wife has done—go home and do everything you can that will