“A fine little old Job’s comforter you make. I wonder if there is anyone in the Yard who does not think I’m playing a losing hand against Larry.”

Moreland beat a pencil in an erratic tattoo on his blotting pad, and shot an appraising sidelong glance at his friend. “Got to keep you from getting too smug,” he said. “You’ve got a temperament. A day or two ago you had your tail between your legs⁠—and now you talk as if it’s all over bar the shouting. I’m sure you’ve been reading a book. Next thing you know you’ll be reciting your methods to me à la Sherlock Holmes. Or is it”⁠—he straightened himself up⁠—“that you have something up your sleeve?”

“I’ve a hunch⁠—”

“For the love of Mike bury it. Facts are what you want.”

“As I was saying,” went on Labar, placidly, “I have a hunch that something is about to open up. Amid all the free advice and admonitions from some millions of newspaper readers⁠—”