"Maybe," says I; "but I'm givin' you my word on it. Produce Josie, and you'll see."
She squints at me doubtful, glances around the room cautious once or twice, and then remarks quiet, "Very well. I'll take a chance. I'm Josie."
"Ask the Sergeant over at the Nineteenth," says she. "He ran me out of his precinct because I wouldn't give up enough. Fortune-telling, you know. He wanted twenty a month. Think of that!"
"Never mind the Sarge," says I. "Did you know Mr. Gordon?"
"Pyramid?" says she. "Rather! Back in the '90's, that was. I was in his offices for awhile."
"Oh--ho!" says I. "Then you must be the one. Would you mind givin' me a sketch of the affair?"
Mrs. Shaw shrugs her shoulders under the old cape. "Why should I care now?" says she. "I sprung a breach of promise suit on him, that's all. I might have known better. He was a hard man, Pyramid Gordon. What with lawyers and the private detectives he set after me, I was glad to get out of the city alive. It was two years before I dared come back--and a rough two years they were too! But you're not raking that up against me at this late date, are you?"
"I'm not," says I. "Any move I make will be for your good. But Steele's the man. I'll have to call him in."
"Call away, then," says she. "I ain't afraid of him, either."
And by luck I catches J. Bayard at his hotel and gets him on the 'phone.
"Well?" says I. "How about the fair Josie?"
I could hear him groan over the wire. "Hang Josie!" says he. "See here, McCabe, I've had a deuce of a time with that case. Must have been something wrong with the address, you know."
"Why," says he, "it led me to a smelly, top-floor flat up in Harlem, and all I could find there was this impossible person, Mrs. Fletcher Shaw. Of all the sniveling, lying, vicious-tongued old harridans! Do you know what she did? Chased me down four flights of stairs with a broom, just because I insisted on seeing Josie Vernon!"
"You don't say!" says I. "And you such a star at this knight-errant business! Still want to see Josie, do you?"
"Then come down to the studio," says I. "She's here."
"Wha-a-at!" he gasps. "I--I'll be right down."
And inside of ten minutes he swings in, all dolled up elegant with a pink carnation in his buttonhole. You should have seen the smile come off his face, though, when he sees what's occupyin' my desk chair. He'd have done a sneak back through the door too, if I hadn't blocked him off.