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Updated: June 11, 2025
Then he seized Steingall's hand and wrung it warmly. "Hermione and I have been wondering what we can do to show our sense of gratitude to you and Mr. Clancy," he said. "Nothing, sir," broke in the detective. "It was all in the way of business, so to speak." "Yes, and our recognition of your services will take shape in that direction," said Curtis.
"Describe Hunter." Steingall's voice rang out incisively; the reporter took off his spectacles, and began to burnish them, for his face was glistening with perspiration. "He is about five feet ten inches in height, and weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of 150 pounds. He is straight and well-built, and his face is finely molded, with big, luminous eyes, deeply recessed, and "
Hermione's face showed the distress she felt, and Steingall's disposition was far too generous to permit of any further probing in this direction when the inquiry gave pain to a young and innocent-minded girl. "To-morrow," he said grimly, "I may read several chapters of Count Vassilan's life. But so much depends on this night's work.
I have no knowledge of the manner of his death other than is contained in the account printed here in this newspaper." She proffered the newspaper purchased before lunch, which she still held in her left hand. The impulsive action broadened Steingall's smile. He was still utterly at a loss to account for this well-mannered girl's queer environment. "Why," he cried, "I quite understand that. Mr.
With him were a good-looking Italian girl and a youth, and the three were deep in eager converse, giving no heed to the other revelers, but rather taking advantage of the prevalent clatter of talk and drinking utensils to discuss whatever topic it was which proved so interesting. Steingall's eyes carried a question, and Curtis shook his head.
Steingall was big, blond, muscular, a genial giant whose qualities rendered him almost popular among the very criminals he hunted, whereas those same desperadoes feared the diminutive Clancy, the little, slight, dark-haired sleuth of French-Irish descent. He, they were aware instinctively, read their very souls before Steingall's huge paw clutched their quaking bodies.
For the life of him, Curtis could not prevent the tumultuous pumping of his heart from drawing some of the color from his face. "Who else?" he inquired, never flinching from Steingall's searching gaze. "No matter who owned the coat, or whom the license was intended for, the murdered man was no Frenchman, but a New York journalist named Henry R. Hunter," said Steingall.
She insisted, and sent Steingall's letter to the inner sanctum, having concluded that the dismissal was in some way due to her visit to the detective bureau. The clerk came back with the note and a message: "The firm desire me to tell you," he said, "that they quite accept your explanation, but they have no further need of your services." Explanation!
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