How he did it I don't know. My own newspaper
experience had made me considerable of a nighthawk. But I always
paid for it by sleeping the next day. With Kennedy, when he was on
a case, even five hours of sleep was more than he seemed able to
stand.
"Hello, Jameson," greeted a voice, as I opened the door. "Is
Kennedy in--oh, he hasn't come back yet?"
It was Lockwood, at first eager to see Craig, then naturally
crestfallen because he saw that he was not there.
"Yes," I replied, rubbing my eyes. "He must be at the laboratory.
If you'll wait a minute while I slip on my clothes, I'll walk over
there with you."
While I completed my hasty toilet, Lockwood sat in our living
room, gazing about with fascination at the collection of trophies
of the chase of criminals.
"This is positively a terrifying array of material, Jameson," he
declared, as at last I emerged. "Between what Kennedy has here and
what he has stowed away in that laboratory of his, I wonder that
any one dares be a crook."
I could not help eying him keenly. Could he have spoken so
heartily if he had known what it was, damning to himself, that
Kennedy had tucked away in the laboratory? If he knew, he must
have been a splendid actor, one of those whom only the minute
blood-pressure test of the sphygmograph could induce to give up a
secret, and then only in spite of himself.
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