Bertha Cool interrupted with calm finality. “You’re going to dinner with me, Donald. We have a case to talk over. You’re working for me. If Alma Hunter wants to hire my agency for any more work, I’ll be glad to accept the employment and assign you to the case. This business is finished. Come on.”

I took a card from my pocket, scribbled the telephone number of the boarding house where I was staying, and handed it to Alma Hunter.

“She’s the boss,” I said. “If you need me, you can ring me there.”

Bertha Cool said to Sandra Birks, “This Scotch and soda are part of the expenses. I’ll leave word at the desk that you’ll settle up. Come on, Donald.”

Dr. Holoman ran out into the corridor just ahead of us. He tugged gently at Bleatie’s sleeve and said in a low voice, “You’ll start that hemorrhage again. Come back here.”

Bleatie shook him off, pounded on the door. “Open up, Morgan, you fool,” he said. “I have something that’s going to help you win your case. I’ve been protecting you all the way through.”

Dr. Holoman turned quickly away. Mrs. Cool, marching toward the elevator, almost ran him down.

He grabbed her arm desperately and said, “Look here, you can do something with him. He’ll bring on a hemorrhage. Won’t you try getting him back into the room?”

Mrs. Cool said “No” to him, and then to me, “Come on, Donald,” and led the way down the corridor.

When we were on the sidewalk, I said, “Is this new case something I’m supposed to start on tonight?”

“What case?”

“The one you wanted to discuss at dinner.”

“Oh,” she said, “there isn’t any case, and there won’t be any dinner.”

When she saw the expression on my face, she went on, “I saw you were falling for that Hunter girl. I don’t like it. She’s mixed in a case. We’ve worked on that case. Our job’s finished. Forget her. And, by the way, Donald, you might signal a cab for me. Get it over here by the fireplug where he can pull into the curb, because I’m not built to go out into traffic and climb aboard a cab.”

I walked out to the curb with her and signaled a cruising cab. He took a look at Bertha Cool’s build and didn’t like the idea of trying to load her, away from the curb, any more than she did. He switched on his lights, pulled in next to the fireplug. I assisted her in, and raised my hat.

“But you’re coming, Donald,” she said.

“No, I’ve got other places to go.”

“Where?”

“Back to ask Alma Hunter for a dinner date,” I said.