ence. "Haven't
seen Worth Gilbert yet. What's the rush with Dykeman?"

"You'll find out when you get there."

Not very friendly, seeing that Cummings had been Worth's lawyer in the
matter, and aside from that queer scene in my office, there'd been no
actual break. He stood now, not really grinning at me, but with an
amused look under that bristly mustache, and suggested,

"So you haven't seen young Gilbert?"

The tone was so significant that I gave him a quick glance of inquiry as
I said,

"No. What about him?"

"Put on your coat and come along. We can talk on the way," he replied,
and I went with him to the street, dug little Pete out of the bootblack
stand and herded him into the roadster to drive us. Cummings gave the
order for North Beach, and as we squirmed through and around congested
down-town traffic, headed for the Stockton Street tunnel, I waited for
the lawyer to begin. When it came, it was another startling question,

"Didn't find Skeels in the south, eh?"

I hadn't thought they'd carry their watching and trailing of us so far.
I answered that question with another,

"When did you see or hear from Worth Gilbert last?"

"Not since the funeral," he said promptly, "the day before the
funeral--a week ago to-day, to be exact. I ran down to make my inventory
then; as administrator, you know."

He looked at me so significantly that I echoed,

"Yes, I know."

"Do you? How much?" His voice was hard and dry; it didn't sound good to
me.

"See here," I put it to him, as my clever little driver dodged in and
out through the narrow lanes between Pagoda-like shops of Chinatown,
avoiding the steep hill streets by a diagonal through the Italian
quarter on Columbus Avenue. "If there's anything you think I ought to be
told, put me wise. I suppose you raised that money for Worth--the
seventy-two thousand that was lacking, I mean?"

"I did not."

I turned the situation over and over in my mind, and at last asked
cautiously,

"Worth did get the money to make up the full amount, didn't he?"

We had swerved again to the north, where the Powell car-line curves into
Bay Street, and were headed direct for the wharves. Cummings watched me
out of the corners of his eyes, a look that bored in most unpleasantly,
while he cross-examined,

"So you don't know where he raised that money--or how--or when? You
don't even know that he did raise it? Is that the idea?"

I gave him look for look, but no answer. An indecis