Blount. 'Twas only on
the chance that he might have faked an excuse and ducked in on you to be
out of reach."
Blount left the door open and went to get his coat and hat.
"Who is the man?" he asked, while the officers lingered.
"A felly named Gryson. He's been working in the railroad shops what
times he wasn't pullin' off something crooked in the p'litical line."
"What is he wanted for?" Blount was closing his desk and preparing to
leave the office.
"Croaking a bank watchman up in Montana afther he'd souped the vault
door for a kick-shot."
"In that case, perhaps I'm lucky that he didn't drop in and croak me,"
laughed Blount, turning off the lights and joining the two men in the
corridor. And then: "There is a back stair to the engine-room in the
basement in the other wing of the building: have you been watching
that?"
The bigger of the two policemen prodded the other in the ribs with his
night-stick. "That's on us, Jakey. He'll have been gone hours ago. Let's
be drilling. 'Tis a fine mind ye have, Mr. Blount, to be thinking of
thim back stairs right off the bat." And the pair went down in the
elevator with Blount, chuckling to themselves at their own discomfiture.
Having set his hand to the plough, Blount did nothing carelessly.
Sauntering slowly, and even pausing to light a cigar, he trailed the two
policemen until they were safely in another street.
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