"Hello," he said, "Basset?… Is this Mr. Hartley Basset? Well, this is Perry Mason, the lawyer. I've got a matter I want to take up with you. Can you come to my office?… All right, I'll come to yours. Sometime this evening?… Yes, I can make it this evening all right. I'd prefer to make it this afternoon… Well, this evening will be all right. You have your office at your house, you say? I'll be there at eightthirty… Oh, you know what it's about, then… Very well, eightthirty."

Perry Mason dropped the receiver back into position.

"How did Basset know that you were going to come here?" he asked.

Harry McLane, his manner filled with assurance, said, "He knew it because I told him."

"You told him?" Bertha McLane asked.

"Yes," Harry said. "He was doing a lot of talking about sending me to jail and all that stuff, and I thought it would be a good plan to throw a scare into I him. I told him that Perry Mason was going to be my lawyer, and he'd better watch his own step, or Perry Mason might see to it that he was the one who went to jail."

Mason stared at Harry McLane in silent dislike.

Bertha McLane crossed to him, put her hand on his arm.

"Thank you," she said, "ever so much. And remember that I'll do the very most that I can for Mr. Basset. I'll pay him off just as quickly as possible—the whole amount and interest. I'll execute a note for it. He can charge interest at the rate of one percent a month. That's what he charges on his notes, you know."

Mason took a deep breath, and said slowly, "As far as Hartley Basset is concerned, I'll talk to him." He took from his desk a blank piece of white bond paper, scribbled a number on it in pencil, handed it to Bertha McLane and said, "This is the telephone number of my apartment. You can reach me there whenever I'm not at the office if anything important should develop. I think your brother's going to talk. When he does, I want to hear what he says."

"You mean about his accomplice?"

"Yes," Mason said.

Harry McLane, his manner now showing brazen selfassurance, contented himself with one comment.

"Nerts," he said.

Bertha McLane pretended not to hear him.

"Your fees," she asked, "how much will they be?" Mason grinned at her and said, "Forget it. The man who just went out of the office paid me enough for his case and yours, too."

A separate door, marked. "Basset Auto Finance Company. Walk in " was immediately to the right of the door on which a brass placard bore the legend:

Perry Mason opened the door which led to the office, and walked in. The outer office was deserted. A door marked "Private " was at the further end. Above an electric pushbutton appeared the words, "Ring and be seated."

Perry Mason rang.

Almost immediately the door opened. A deepchested man, with a closecropped gray mustache and a thick shock of hair which had grizzled at the temples, stared at him with lightgray eyes, from the centers of which pinpointed black pupils held a hypnotic fascination.

Moving with quick virility, he shot out his left wrist so that he could stare at the wristwatch.

"On time." he said. "to the minute."

Perry Mason bowed, said nothing, and followed Hartley Basset into a rather plainly appointed office.

"Not here," Basset said. "This is where I collect money. I don't want it to look too prosperous. Come into the office from which I make my big loans. I like it better in there."

He opened a door and indicated an office sumptuously furnished. From a room beyond came the sound of a clacking typewriter.

"Work nights?" Perry Mason asked.

"I'm usually open for a couple of hours during the evening. That's to accommodate people who have jobs. A man who isn't working and wants to borrow on an automobile isn't as good a risk as the man who has a job and needs money."

He indicated a chair. Mason dropped into it.

"You want to see me about Harry McLane?" Basset asked.

At the lawyer's nod, Basset pressed a button. The typewriting in the adjoining office ceased. A chair made a noise as it scraped back. Then a door opened. A narrowshouldered man, about fortyfive years of age, with grayish eyes, peered owlishly from behind hornrimmed spectacles.

"Arthur," Basset said, "what are the exact figures on the McLane embezzlement?"

"Three thousand, nine hundred and fortytwo dollars and sixtythree cents," the man in the doorway said, his voice husky and without expression.

"That includes interest?" asked Basset, "at the rate of one per cent a month?"

"Interest at the rate of one per cent a month," the man affirmed, "from the date the money was embezzled."

Basset said, "That's all."

The man in the doorway stepped back and closed the door. A few seconds later, the clack of the typewriter sounded with mechanical regularity. Hartley Basset smiled at Perry Mason, and said, "He's got until tomorrow afternoon."

Mason extracted a cigarette from his cigarette case. Basset pulled a cigar from his waistcoat pocket. Both men lit up at virtually the same time. Mason extinguished his match by blowing smoke on it, and said, "There's no reason why you and I should misunderstand each other."

"None whatever," Basset agreed.

"I don't know the facts of the case," Mason went on, "but I'm acting on the assumption that McLane embezzled the money."

"He's confessed to it."

"Well, let's not argue that point. Let's assume that he did embezzle it."

"Saving the point so you can defend him in court?" Basset asked, his eyes growing hard.

"I'm simply not making any admissions," Mason said. "If my clients want to make admissions they can do so. I never make admissions."

"Go ahead," Basset remarked.

"You want your money."

"Naturally."

"McLane hasn't got it."

"He had an accomplice."

"Do you know who the accomplice was?"

"No. I wish I did."

"Why?"

"Because the accomplice has the money."

"What makes you think so?"

"I'm virtually certain of it!

"Why doesn't the accomplice pay it back then?"

"I don't know all of the reasons. One of them is that the accomplice is a gambler. He has to have a roll in order to gamble. You dig into Harry McLane's mental processes deeply enough, and you'll find that he's figuring on staging a big comeback. He's got sense enough to know that if he and his accomplice pay back all the money Harry embezzled, they won't have any operating capital. A gambler needs something to gamble with.

"Not that I blame them particularly," Basset said, "if they can get away with it. But they can't get away with it. Not with my money. They're either going to kick through, or go to jail."

"I presume you realize," Mason said, "that you're compounding a felony."

"I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm getting my money back."

"You're offering embezzlers immunity from prosecution if they make good the money embezzled."

"Let's not be overly technical about it," Basset remarked. "You know what you want. I know what I want. I'm talking plainly to you. I might not talk as plainly elsewhere. I want my money."

"And you think McLane has it?"

"No, I think his accomplice has it."

"But don't you think if McLane could get it from his accomplice, he'd have done so already?"

"No'" Basset said. "They stole money to gamble with. They lost some of it. They want to keep on gambling. McLane's sister will put up money to keep McLane from going to jail. That will leave the pair money to gamble with."

"Well?" Mason asked.

"The girl hasn't all of the money," Basset said. "She's got a little over fifteen hundred dollars. McLane's accomplice has about two thousand left. I'll get the girl's money and then I'll find out who the accomplice is and get what money he's got."