“Fully investigated the possibilities of growing orchids,” Mason said again.

Dane Grover studied Mason silently for a few seconds. Then abruptly he rose from the chair, extended his hand, and said, “I wanted you to understand, Mr. Mason, that I’m going to stick. I brought you some money. I thought you might need it.” He carelessly tossed an envelope on the table. And with that he turned and marched out of the office.

Mason reached for the envelope Grover had tossed on his desk. It was well filled with hundred-dollar bills.

Della Street came over to take the money. “When I get so interested in a man,” she said, “that I neglect to count the money, you know I’m becoming incurably romantic. How much, Chief?”

“Plenty,” Mason said.

Della Street was counting it when the unlisted telephone on her desk rang. She picked up the receiver, and heard Drake’s voice on the line. “Hi, Paul,” she said.

“Hi, Della. Perry there?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Drake said wearily, “I’m making a progress report. Tell him Lieutenant Tragg nabbed the Grover gardener, a chap by the name of Sheff. They’re holding him as a material witness, seem to be all worked up about what they’ve discovered. Can’t find out what it is.”

Della Street sat motionless at the desk, holding the receiver.

“Hello, hello,” Drake said; “are you there?”

“I’m here,” Della said. “I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone.

It was after nine o’clock that night when Della Street, signing the register in the elevator, was whisked up to the floor where Perry Mason had his offices. She started to look in on Paul Drake, then changed her mind and kept on walking down the long, dark corridor, the rapid tempo of her heels echoing back at her from the night silence of the hallway.

She rounded the elbow in the corridor, and saw that lights were on in Mason’s office.

The lawyer was pacing the floor, thumbs pushed in the armholes of his vest, head shoved forward, wrapped in such concentration that he did not even notice the opening of the door.

The desk was littered with photographs. There were numerous sheets of the flimsy which Paul Drake used in making reports.

Della stood quietly in the doorway, watching the tall, lean-waisted man pacing back and forth. Granite-hard of face, the seething action of his restless mind demanded a physical outlet, and this restless pacing was just an unconscious reflex.

After almost a minute Della Street said, “Hello, Chief. Can I help?”

Mason looked up at her with a start. “What are you doing here?”

“I came up to see if there was anything I could do to help. Had any dinner?” she asked.

He glanced at his wrist watch, said, “Not yet.”

“What time is it?” Della Street asked.

He had to look at his wrist watch again in order to tell her. “Nine forty.”