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month."
    "But I couldn't!"
    "That's what I told him. I told him you had a mother to support. He feels that your mother can go on public charity."
    "Oh, but I couldn't do that!"
    "That's what I told him. Now listen. You make Harry tell you what he's done with the money, and who his accomplice is."
    "But Harry won't do it."
    "Then let him go to jail."
    "Where are you now?"
    "At a drug store."
    "Near Basset's place?"
    "Yes."
    "Go back and tell Mr. Basset I'll arrange to get the money some way. I can meet the payments for one or two months at least. By that time, Harry will be working. I have some things I can sell."
    "I'll tell Basset nothing of the sort."
    "But I want to accept his offer before Harry goes to jail."
    "You have until tomorrow afternoon to get some other attorney to act for you."
    "You mean you won't represent me?"
    "No," Mason said; "not to accept any such offer as that. The only way I'll represent you is for you to let me take your kid brother apart and see what makes him tick. After he comes clean, I'll do the best for you that I can. Otherwise, you get some other lawyer. Don't argue with me over the telephone. Think it over. Give me your answer later."
    He banged up the receiver.

Chapter Four
    PERRY MASON, sprawled in an easy chair, reading a book on the latest discoveries in psychology, barely noticed the clock strike midnight.
    The telephone on the stand at his elbow made noise. Mason picked up the receiver and said, "Hello, Mason speaking." He heard a woman's voice, harsh with emotion, spilling words into his ear before he had placed her identity.
    "… Come out at once. I'm leaving my husband. He's been guilty of a brutal attack. There's going to be trouble. My son is going to kill him…"
    "Who is this talking?" Mason interrupted.
    "Sylvia Basset – Hartley Basset's wife."
    "What do you want me to do?"
    "Come out here just as soon as you can get here."
    "It'll keep," the lawyer said, "until morning."
    "No; it won't. You don't understand. A woman out here has been seriously injured."
    "What's the matter with her?"
    "She's been struck over the head."
    "Who struck her?"
    "My husband."
    "Where's your husband?"
    "He jumped in a car and ran away. As soon as he comes back, my son, Dick, is going to kill him. There isn't a thing that I can ado to stop it. I want you to I come out and take charge of the case. If my husband I comes back before you get here, Dick will kill him. I want you to explain to Dick that you can protect my interests; that he doesn't need to take the law in his own hands; that…"
    "Where are you now?"
    "At my home."
    "Can you bring your son to me?"
    "No, he won't leave. He's furious. I can't do anything with him."
    "Have you threatened to call in the police?"
    "No."
    "Why?"
    "Because they'd arrest him, and I don't want that and there are other things that would make it very embarrassing for me. Won't you please come out? I can't explain over the phone, but it's life and death. It's…"
    "I'll come out," Perry Mason interrupted. "You keep Dick under control until I get there."
    He dropped the receiver into place, flung off his smoking jacket and slippers, struggled into coat and shoes, and one minute and thirty seconds later was pressing the throttle of his coupe down against the floor-boards as he charged through the night streets.
    Mrs. Basset met him at the door of the house – the one that had been marked as the entrance to the finance company.
    "Come in here," she said, "and please talk with Dick as soon as you can."
    Perry Mason entered the outer office. A slender youth of twenty-one or twenty-two jerked open the door from the inner office and said, "Look here, Mom, I'm not going to wait…" He broke off as he saw Perry Mason. His hands, which had been extended in front of him, dropped to his sides.
    "Dick," she said, "I want you to meet Perry Mason, the lawyer. This is Dick Basset, my son."
    The young man stared at Perry Mason with wide, deep, brown eyes. His face was dead-white.