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he took a manila envelope out of his inside pocket and opened it. Among other things it contained a snapshot, or a piece of snapshot, which Lackland pushed across the table to me.
    It was a picture of a man in his forties. He had fair thinning hair, bold eyes, a wry mouth. He looked like a poet who had missed his calling and had had to settle for grosser satisfactions.
    His picture had been cut from a larger picture which had included other people. I could see girls’ dresses on either side of him, but not the girls. The thing looked like a blown-up snapshot at least twenty years old.
    “Know him?” Captain Lackland said.
    “No.”
    He thrust his scarred face toward me like a warning of what my face might become. “You’re sure about that, are you?”
    “I’m sure.” There was no use mentioning my unsupported guess that this was a picture Jean Trask had given Harrow, and that it was a picture of her father.
    He leaned toward me again. “Come on now, Mr. Archer, help us out. Why was Sidney Harrow carrying this?” His forefinger jabbed at the blown-up snapshot.
    “I don’t know.”
    “You must have some idea. Why were
you
interested in Harrow?”
    “I have to talk to John Truttwell. After that I may be able to say something.”
    Lackland got up and left the room. In about ten minutes he came back accompanied by Truttwell. The lawyer looked at me with concern.
    “I understand you’ve been here for some time, Archer. You should have got in touch with me before.” He turned to Lackland. “I’ll talk to Mr. Archer in private. He’s employed by me in a confidential capacity.”
    Lackland retreated slowly. Truttwell sat down across from me. “Why are they holding you, anyway?”
    “A part-time bill collector named Sidney Harrow was shot last night. Lackland knows I was following Harrow. He doesn’t know that Harrow was one of several people involved in the theft of the gold box.”
    Truttwell was startled. “You’ve found that out already?”
    “It wasn’t hard. This is the sloppiest burglary in history. The woman who has the box now keeps it lying around in plain view.”
    “Who is she?”
    “Her married name is Jean Trask. Who she really is is another question. Apparently Nick stole the box and gave it to her. Which is why I can’t talk freely, to Lackland or anyone else.”
    “I should certainly say you can’t. Are you sure about all this?”
    “Unless I’ve been having delusions.” I stood up. “Can’t we finish this outside?”
    “Of course. Wait here for a minute.”
    Truttwell went out, closing the door behind him. He came back smiling and handed me the photostat of my license. “You’re sprung. Oliver Lackland’s a fairly reasonable man.”
    In the narrow corridor that led to the parking lot, I ran the gauntlet of Lackland and his sergeants. They nodded at me, too many times for comfort.
    I told Truttwell what had happened as we drove across town in his Cadillac. He turned up Pacific Street.
    “Where are we going?”
    “To my house. You made quite an impression on Betty. She wants to ask your advice.”
    “What about?”
    “It’s probably something to do with Nick. He’s all she thinks about.” Truttwell added after a long pause: “Betty seems to believe I’m prejudiced against him. That’s really not the case. But I don’t want her to make any unnecessary mistakes. She’s the only daughter I have.”
    “She told me she’s twenty-five.”
    “Betty’s very young for her age, though. Very young and vulnerable.”
    “Superficially, maybe. She struck me as a resourceful woman.”
    Truttwell gave me a look of pleased surprise. “I’m glad you think so. I brought her up by myself, and it’s been quite a responsibility.” After another pause he added: “My wife died when Betty was only a few months old.”
    “She told me her mother was killed by a hit-run driver.”
    “Yes, that’s true.” Truttwell’s voice was almost inaudible.
    “Was the driver ever