outs."

"Was he always a gambler?" she wanted to know.

"Always. Ran a joint on Fillmore Street after the big earthquake, and
before San Francisco came back down-town."

"A gambler," she spoke the word just above her breath, as though trying
it out with herself. "A man who took big chances--risks."

"Not Steve," I smiled at her earnestness. "Steve was a piker always--a
tin-horn gambler. Hid away from the police instead of doing business
with them. Take a chance? Not Steve."

Worth had left the telephone and was leaning over her shoulder to read
what she had typed.

"Exactly and precisely," he said, "the same words you had in that other
fool description of him."

"Of whom?"

"Clayte."

Worth let me have the one word straight between the eyes, and I leaned
back in my chair, the breath almost knocked out of me by it. By an
effort I pulled myself together and turned to the girl:

"Take dictation, please: Skeel's eyes are wide apart, rather small but
keen--"

And for the next few minutes I was making words mean something, drawing
a picture of the Skeels I knew, so that others could visualize him. And
it brought me a word of commendation from Miss Wallace, and made Worth
exclaim,

"Sounds more like Clayte than Clayte himself. You've put flesh on those
bones, Jerry."

"You keep busy at that phone and help land him," I growled. "Finish,
please: 'Wire information to me. I hold warrant. Jeremiah Boyne,
Bankers' Security Agency,' That's all."

The girl pulled the sheets from the machine and sorted them while I was
stabbing the buzzer. Roberts answered, breezing in with an apology which
I nipped.

"Never mind that. Get this telegram on the wires to each of our
corresponding agencies as far east as Spokane, Ogden and Denver. Has
Murray got in touch with Foster?"

"Not yet. Young and Stroud are outside."

"Send them to bring in Steve Skeels," I ordered. "Description on the
telegram there. Any word, Worth?"

"Nothing yet." Worth was calling one after another of the taxi offices.
Little Pete came in with a tray.

"All right, Worth," I said. "Turn that job over to Roberts. Here's where
we eat."

The kid's idea of catering for Barbara was club sandwiches and pie a la
mode. It wouldn't have been mine; but I was glad to note that he'd
guessed right. The youngsters fell to with appetite. For myself, I ate,
the receiver at my ear, talking between bites. San Jose, Stockton, Santa
Rosa--in all the nearby towns of s