"Come into Muller's," said Woods, "and let's hunt a quiet table. I'd
like to talk to you awhile."
It lacked a few minutes to the hour of four. The tides of trade were
not yet loosed, and they found a quiet corner of the cafe. Kernan,
well dressed, slightly swaggering, self-confident, seated himself
opposite the little detective, with his pale, sandy mustache,
squinting eyes and ready-made cheviot suit.
"What business are you in now?" asked Woods. "You know you left Saint
Jo a year before I did."
"I'm selling shares in a copper mine," said Kernan. "I may establish
an office here. Well, well! and so old Barney is a New York
detective. You always had a turn that way. You were on the police in
Saint Jo after I left there, weren't you?"
"Six months," said Woods. "And now there's one more question, Johnny.
I've followed your record pretty close ever since you did that hotel
job in Saratoga, and I never knew you to use your gun before. Why did
you kill Norcross?"
Kernan stared for a few moments with concentrated attention at the
slice of lemon in his high-ball; and then he looked at the detective
with a sudden, crooked, brilliant smile.
"How did you guess it, Barney?" he asked, admiringly. "I swear I
thought the job was as clean and as smooth as a peeled onion. Did I
leave a string hanging out anywhere?"
Woods laid upon the table a small gold pencil intended for a
watch-charm.
"It's the one I gave you the last Christmas we were in Saint Jo.
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