Harold MacGrath

“ For the first time the valet became interested in the detective. “I don't quite understand you.”
“Time enough for that when your master comes.”
Conversation lagged again. From the wall the buttons of the six pairs of shoes twinkled like the beady eyes of rats. No matter where his glance roved, Haggerty found it always returning to the shoes. They made him laugh inwardly. A millionaire, having his shoes tapped and heeled, just like one of those thrifty old Wall Street sharks of another day. A swell who thought more of comfort than of style. It was all novel to Haggerty. ”

“ Crawford”—emphatically.
“What! a millionaire an' a philanthropist! Shoo-fly!... Hark! There he comes now. I have a gun in my pocket, Mr. Mason. Th' least suspicious movement on your part t' warn your master, an' I'm liable t' break your arm. Go on!”
Behind the curtains he grasped the valet's arm ... and pursed his lips into a silent whistle. The arm was not big but it was iron-hard.
“This is a damnable outrage!” breathed the valet.
“Be still!” Haggerty jabbed the valet in the small of the back. It hurt, for the man gasped. ”

“ Mason, listen t' me attentively. When your master comes, you an' me'll slip int' that room there behind those curtains. I want t' see him come inf th' room naturally. Get me?
“The police can not be wanting Mr. ”