Della Street pushed open the door of Perry Mason's private office. There was something almost surreptitious in her demeanor as she slipped through the door and carefully closed it behind her.

Perry Mason was seated at his desk. His eyes squinted carefully.

"Why the secrecy?" he asked.

She advanced a step or two into the room and looked at him, then turned to glance at the door and made certain that it was closed.

"There's a man in the outer office who gives his name as Robert Gleason."

"What does he want?" asked Perry Mason.

"He wants information about Miss Celane."

"The one who has just been here?"

"Yes."

"You didn't tell him she had just been here?"

"Certainly not."

"What did he say?"

"He said that he wanted to see you. I asked him what the nature of his business was and he said it was about a client of yours. I told him that he would have to give me the name of the client and tell me something of the nature of the business. He said that it was about Miss Celane and he was very anxious to see you about her."

"All right," Mason said, "what did you tell him?"

"I told him that I wasn't familiar with the names of your clients; that he would have to be more specific concerning his business. He's frightfully excited."

"What's he excited about?" asked Mason. "The girl, his business, or what?"

"I don't know. He's excited and nervous."

Mason squared his shoulders as though reaching a sudden decision.

"Send him in," he said, "I want to talk with him."

She nodded and turned, holding the door open.

"You may come in," she said.

There was the rustle of motion. A man came into the room who radiated restlessness. He was a thin man with a very pointed nose and large ears. He walked with nervous jerky steps. He was in the late twenties or early thirties.

"You're Mason, the lawyer?" he asked, his voice quick with impatience.

Perry Mason surveyed him with patient eyes peering out from under heavy eyebrows.

"Sit down," he said.

His visitor hesitated, then sat down on the edge of one of the straightbacked chairs.

"Now, what did you want?" asked Perry Mason.

"I want to find out whether Frances Celane called on you today."

Perry Mason's face was patiently appraising.

"This is a law office and not an information bureau, Mr. Gleason," he said.

Gleason jumped nervously to his feet, made three swift strides to the window, stood against the light for a moment, then whirled to stare at the lawyer.

His eyes were dark and smouldering. He seemed to be fighting some overpowering emotion.

"Never mind the wisecracks," he said. "I've got to know whether or not Fran Celane was here talking with you."

Perry Mason's voice did not change its expression in the least. The other man's impatience dropped from his calm manner as easily as butter slips from a hot knife.

"Let's not have any misunderstanding about this," said Perry Mason. "You're talking about a Miss Frances Celane?"

"Yes."

"Do you know Miss Celane personally?"

"Of course I do."

Perry Mason made a frank, disarming gesture with his right hand as though the entire matter were dismissed as of no importance.

"That simplifies it," he said.

"What does?" asked Gleason, suspiciously.

"The fact that you know Miss Celane," said Perry Mason. "Under the circumstances, all you have to do is to ask her if she has consulted me. If she has not, there will be no necessity for you to return. If she has and doesn't want you to know it, she will doubtless find some way of concealing the fact. If she has consulted me and doesn't care if you know the fact, she will tell you."

He got to his feet and smiled at his visitor as though the interview were terminated.

Robert Gleason remained standing by the window. His face showed that he was laboring under a great strain.

"You can't talk that way to me," he said.

"But," explained Mason, patiently, "I have already talked that way to you."

"But you can't do it."

"Why not?"

"It would be all right to talk that way to a stranger," he said, "but I'm not a stranger. I'm close to Fran Celane. I've got a right to know. She's being blackmailed, and I want to know what you propose to do about it."

Perry Mason raised his eyebrows in polite interrogation.

"Who is being blackmailed?" he asked. "And by whom?"

Gleason made an impatient gesture.

"What's the use of all that hooey?" he asked. "I know she was here, and you know she was here. You know she's being blackmailed, and I want to know what you propose to do about it."

"I think," said Mason, "that under the circumstances I'm going to ask you to step out of the office. You see, when I asked you to come in, I thought that you had some matter of legal business to take up with me. As it happens, I am rather busy today, and I really haven't time to discuss with you the only matter which seems to interest you."

Gleason kept his position.

"At least," he said, "you can tell me who is doing the blackmailing. That's all I want to know. If you'll give me that information I'll arrange to take care of it myself."

The lawyer walked to the door, standing there very efficient and gravely dignified.

"Goodby, Mr. Gleason," he said. "I'm sorry that I can be of no assistance to you."

"That's final?" asked Gleason, his lips twisting with emotion, until he seemed to be snarling.

"That's all," said Perry Mason, in a tone of finality.

"Very well," said Gleason, and strode across the room and through the door without another word.

Perry Mason closed the door gently, hooked his thumbs in the armholes of his vest, dropped his head forward and started pacing the floor.

After a few moments, he went to his desk, and took out the typewritten paper containing the copy of the clause in the will of Carl Celane, setting forth the terms of the trust to Frances Celane.

He was still studying this typewritten document when Della Street opened the door once more.

"Miss Celane," she said.

Mason looked at her speculatively for a moment, then beckoned to her.

She interpreted the gesture, and stepped fully into the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

"Did Gleason go out of the office as soon as he left here?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "in just about nothing flat. He acted as though he was trying to win a walking race."

"And Miss Celane just came in?"

"Yes."

"You don't think they met in the elevator?"

Della Street pursed her lips thoughtfully.

"They might have, Chief," she said, "but I don't think they did."

"How does Miss Celane seem?" he asked. "Excited?"

"No," she said, "cool as a cucumber, and she's trying to look her best when she comes in. She took out her compact and is making her face all pretty. She's got her hair arranged just so."

"All right," said Mason, "send her in."

The secretary opened the door. "Come in, Miss Celane," she said.

As Frances Celane walked into the room, the secretary slipped out through the door, and noiselessly closed it behind her.

"Sit down," said Perry Mason.

Frances Celane walked over to the same leather chair which she had occupied earlier in the day, sat down, crossed her knees and regarded the attorney from limpid black eyes in wordless interrogation.

"A Robert Gleason called on me a few minutes ago," said Mason, "and insisted on my telling him whether or not you had been here."

"Bob's so impulsive," she said.

"You know him then?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did you tell him you were going here?" he asked.

"I mentioned your name to him," she said. "Did you tell him that I had been here?"

"Certainly not. I told him to get in touch with you if he wanted to ask any questions about your affairs."