d some sort of lay preacher. Maybe he needed legal advice;
Allan could vaguely remember some incident--

"Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Gutchall. Lovely day, isn't it?" Blake Hartley
said.

Gutchall cleared his throat. "Mr. Hartley, I wonder if you could lend me
a gun and some bullets," he began, embarrassedly. "My little dog's been
hurt, and it's suffering something terrible. I want a gun, to put the
poor thing out of its pain."

"Why, yes; of course. How would a 20-gauge shotgun do?" Blake Hartley
asked. "You wouldn't want anything heavy."

Gutchall fidgeted. "Why, er, I was hoping you'd let me have a little
gun." He held his hands about six inches apart. "A pistol, that I could
put in my pocket. It wouldn't look right, to carry a hunting gun on the
Lord's day; people wouldn't understand that it was for a work of mercy."

The lawyer nodded. In view of Gutchall's religious beliefs, the
objection made sense.

"Well, I have a Colt .38-special," he said, "but you know, I belong to
this Auxiliary Police outfit. If I were called out for duty, this
evening, I'd need it. How soon could you bring it back?"

Something clicked in Allan Hartley's mind. He remembered, now, what that
incident had been. He knew, too, what he had to do.

"Dad, aren't there some cartridges left for the Luger?" he asked.

Blake Hartley snapped his fingers. "By George, yes! I have a German
automatic I can let you have, but I wish you'd bring it back as soon as
possible. I'll get it for you."

Before he could rise, Allan was on his feet.

"Sit still, Dad; I'll get it. I know where the cartridges are." With
that, he darted into the house and upstairs.

The Luger hung on the wall over his father's bed. Getting it down, he
dismounted it, working with rapid precision. He used the blade of his
pocketknife to unlock the endpiece of the breechblock, slipping out the
firing pin and buttoning it into his shirt pocket. Then he reassembled
the harmless pistol, and filled the clip with 9-millimeter cartridges
from the bureau drawer.

There was an extension telephone beside the bed. Finding Gutchall's
address in the directory, he lifted the telephone, and stretched his
handkerchief over the mouthpiece. Then he dialed Police Headquarters.

[Illustration]

"This is Blake Hartley," he lied, deepening his voice and copying his
father's tone. "Frank Gutchall, who lives at...take this down"--he gave
Gutchall's address--"has just borrowed a pistol from me, osten