“I can tell you that that French hussy killed him, and I can tell you that any other damned numbskull notions you’ve got are way off the lode.”

“But they’ve got to be looked into,” I insisted. “And you know the inside of Personville politics better than anyone else I’m likely to find. He was your son. The least you can do is⁠—”

“The least I can do,” he bellowed, “is tell you to get to hell back to Frisco, you and your numbskull⁠—”

I got up and said unpleasantly:

“I’m at the Great Western Hotel. Don’t bother me unless you want to talk sense for a change.”

I went out of the bedroom and down the stairs. The secretary hovered around the bottom step, smiling apologetically.

“A fine old rowdy,” I growled.

“A remarkably vital personality,” he murmured.