gle. I had expected a fight, an out-and-out free-for-all with fists, and had edged to one side, to get a little distance between me and the dust of that engagement. But Pinky, for all his strength, offered no resistance. He looked at me for a solid thirty seconds, however, with hate in his eye. He could have cut my heart out, without a whimper.
"Excuse me, miss, but would you mind coming along to the Chief's office with us?" that singed cat was inquiring as Pinky and I finished our stare-fest.
I went. And that was how I first came to meet the Chief, Big Ben Locke. And an hour later, after Big Ben had talked over the case of Pinky McClone, and asked me a number of questions and ventured the opinion that I was an uncommonly clever girl, he offhandedly inquired how I'd like to be an operative, at fifteen a week to begin with, and tog out in new clothes and ride up and down in the Fifth Avenue busses as a "spotter" for fare-cribbers.
I didn't hesitate long over that offer, though I found out, later, that he was handing me the cake with the icing side up. But my triumph was clouded by the thought of Pinky McClone. I still had the habit of looking at things from the occasional offender's side of the line.
"Will that man really get ten years?" I asked,
