don't want another Kridel case on my conscience."
The name dampened Garth's enthusiasm. He had never known Joe Kridel who, a year ago, had been the ascending star of the bureau. But the manner of the young man's death was depressingly familiar to him—found stabbed through the heart in a private house whose dwellers had heard no alarm. The key to that puzzle had never been discovered. Even the inspector had harbored the nature of Kridel's assignment that night of his murder.
"I hate," the inspector continued, that note of regret in his voice again, "to give a man I like such an ugly risk."
This reached Garth as definite encouragement to words which he had restrained for some time with difficulty. To loose them, now, however, would be, in a way, unfair to his chief; would, in every sense, form no fitting prelude to his formidable and dangerous task. He contented himself, therefore, with an unsatisfactory compromise.
"If I've time I may drop in for a chat with Nora after all."
"But you won't alarm her with this?"
"Certainly not."
The inspector was very friendly.
"You know I wouldn't be surprised if Nora had taken kind of a fancy for you herself."
Garth's face reddened. He turned away.
The inspector sighed.
