Pendleton followed at once, and
came up with him part way down an intersecting street.
"Where to now?" he asked.
"City Hall," replied Ashton-Kirk, briefly.
It was no great distance to the municipal buildings; they shot up in
the elevator and entered the police department.
"I'd like to see Superintendent Weagle," said the investigator to the
officer who came forward to speak to them.
"He's just getting ready to go home," answered the man, "but I'll see
what I can do."
The superintendent of police happened to be in an obliging humor, and
they were shown into his office a few moments later. Weagle stood in
the middle of the floor, drawing on a light over-coat; the end of a
black cigar was clenched between his teeth.
"How are you?" greeted he. "Anything doing in my line?"
"Not just yet," replied Ashton-Kirk, "but I have some hopes."
The official laughed.
"We all have them," said he. "If we didn't we might as well put up the
shutters." He threw the cigar end away and wiped his stubby moustache
with a large handkerchief. "You've come for something," said he. "What
is it? My wife and kiddies are expecting me, and I must get home."
"How long are you going to maintain the police guard at 478 Christie
Place?" inquired the investigator.
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