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Updated: May 11, 2025
Blake sipped his bruilleau, glanced casually at his watch, and took out a cigar and lighted it. He blinked contentedly across the table at the man he was "buzzing." The trick had been turned. The word had been given. He knew that Binhart was headed westward again.
"Abe, I 've come down to gather you in," announced the calmly mendacious detective. He continued to sip his bruilleau with fraternal unconcern. "You got nothing on me, Jim," protested the other, losing his taste for the delicacies arrayed about him. "Well, we got 'o go down to Headquarters and talk that over," calmly persisted Blake.
Sheiner, it was plain to see, was in clover, for he was breakfasting regally, on squares of toast covered with shrimp and picked crab meat creamed, with a bisque of cray-fish and papa-bottes in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of fruit and bruilleau. Blake insisted on joining his old friend Sheiner, much to the tatter's secret discomfiture.
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