Mason and Drake exchanged glances. "A letter for me?" Mason asked.

"Yeah. It's at the desk. I'll get it."

"Take any baggage with him?" Drake asked.

"No. He was just going out for dinner, I think."

The detective stepped behind the counter and took a sealed envelope from a pigeon-hole. The envelope was addressed: "Perry Mason, Attorney at Law. To be delivered to Mr. Mason when he calls this evening."

Mason slit open the envelope. A five-dollar bill was clipped to a sheet of hotel stationery. A brief note read:

"DEAR MR. MASON: I realized I was being followed shortly after I left your office, so I got the janitor to let me out through the basement and alley. I subsequently telephoned to try and locate my cab, and found that you had paid it off. I am, therefore, reimbursing you herewith.

Insofar as the advice which you have given me is concerned, I beg you to consider it as bread cast upon the waters, and believe I can assure you that it will be returned a thousandfold. 

 WILLIAM MALLORY"

Mason sighed, pulled the five-dollar bill from the clip, folded it, and slipped it in his vest pocket. "The bishop didn't say when he'd be back, did he?" Mason asked.

Jim Pauley shook his head, said, "A mighty nice chap, the bishop. Didn't seem to resent things at all. He got a lulu of a crack on his head. Couldn't even wear his hat. Had to be all bandaged up like a turban."

Mason nodded to Drake and said significantly, "Suppose you call your office, Paul."

Drake went into the telephone booth and talked for several moments into the transmitter. Then he opened the door of the booth and beckoned to Mason. "My operatives have reported back," he said in a low monotone, keeping his head back in the shadows of the booth. "They followed the bishop to Piers 157-158, Los Angeles harbor. He stopped at a pawnshop on the way, and bought two suitcases and some clothes. They followed him from there to the pier. He went up the gangplank of the S.S. Monterey, and he didn't come down again. The Monterey sailed tonight for Australia via Honolulu and Pago Pago. My men followed the ship in a speed launch well beyond the breakwater, to make sure the bishop didn't get off. Looks like your friend has taken a run-out powder. Watch your step, Perry. He's a phoney."

Mason shrugged and said, "Let me at that phone, Paul."

Della Street 's voice on the line was excited, "Hello, Chief," she said. "You win."

"On what?" he asked.

"Julia Branner is here at the office, waiting for you; says she must see you at once."

Julia Branner stared at Perry Mason with reddish-brown eyes which matched the glint in her hair. Her face was that of a young woman in the late twenties, save for a line beneath her chin and incipient calipers which stretched from her nose to the corners of her lips when she smiled.

"It's rather unusual for me to see clients at this hour," Mason said.

"I just got in," she told him. "I saw a light in your office, so I came in. Your secretary said you might see me."

"Live here in the city?" Mason asked.

"I'm staying with a friend at 214-A West Beechwood. I'm going to share an apartment with her."

"Married or single?" Mason asked casually.

"I go by the name of Miss Branner."

"You're working?"

"Not at present, but I've been working until recently. I have a little money."

"You've been working here in this city?"

"No, not here."

"Where?"

"Does that make any difference?"

"Yes," Mason told her.

"In Salt Lake City."

"And you say you're sharing an apartment with a woman here?"

"Yes."

"Someone you've known for some time?"

"Yes, I knew her in Salt Lake City. I've known her for years. We shared an apartment in Salt Lake."

"Telephone?"

"Yes, Gladstone eight-seven-one-nine."

"What's your occupation?"

"I'm a nurse… But wouldn't it be better for me to tell you what I want to see you about, Mr. Mason, before we go into all of these incidental matters?"

Mason shook his head slowly and said, "I always like to get the picture. How did you happen to consult me?"

"I heard you were a very fine lawyer."

"So you came on here from Salt Lake City to see me?"

"Well, not exactly."

"You came by train?"

"No, by plane."

"When?"

"Recently."

"Precisely when did you arrive?"

"At ten o'clock this morning-if you have to know."

"Who recommended me to you?"

"A man I knew in Australia."

Mason raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

"Bishop Mallory. He wasn't a bishop when I knew him, but he's a bishop now."

"And he suggested you come here?"

"Yes."

"Then you've seen the bishop since your arrival?"

She hesitated and said slowly, "I can't see that that makes any difference, Mr. Mason."

Mason smiled and said, "Well, perhaps you're right, particularly since I don't think I'm going to be able to handle your case. You see, I'm very busy with a lot of important matters and…"

"Oh, but you must. I… you'll just have to, that's all."

"When did you see Bishop Mallory?" Mason asked.

She sighed and said, "A few hours ago."

"But you've been here since morning?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you come to see me during office hours?"

She shifted her position uneasily. Resentment flared for a moment in her reddish-brown eyes. Then she took a deep breath and said slowly, "Bishop Mallory suggested I come to you. I couldn't see the bishop until a short time ago. He'd been injured and was in a hospital."

"And he suggested you come to me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did he give you a letter to me?"

"No."

"Then," Mason said, making his tone carry an implied accusation, "you have absolutely nothing to show that you actually know Bishop Mallory, that you actually saw him, or that he suggested you come to me." She fought back resentment in her eyes and shook her head. Mason said, "Under those circumstances I'm quite certain I couldn't interest myself in your problems."

She seemed to debate with herself for a moment, then snapped open the black handbag which had been reposing in her lap. "I think," she said, "this may answer your question." Her gloved fingers fumbled around in the inside of the purse. Mason's eyes suddenly glinted with interest as the lights reflected from the blued steel barrel of an automatic which nestled within the black bag. As though sensing his scrutiny, she pivoted her body in a half-turn so that her shoulder was between Mason's eyes and the bag. Then she pulled out a yellow envelope, took from it a Western Union telegram, carefully snapped the bag shut and handed the telegram to Mason.

The telegram had been sent from San Francisco and was addressed to Julia Branner, care of The Sisters' Hospital, Salt Lake City, Utah, and read simply: MEET ME REGAL HOTEL LOS ANGELES AFTERNOON OF THE FOURTH. BRING ALL DOCUMENTS-WILLIAM MALLORY.

Mason frowned thoughtfully at the telegram and said, "You didn't meet Bishop Mallory this afternoon?"

"No. I told you he'd been injured."

"You saw him this evening, a few hours ago?"

"Yes."

"Did he say anything to you about his future plans?"

"No."

"Just what did he say?"

"He suggested I should see you and tell you my entire story."

Mason sat back in his swivel chair and said, "Go ahead."

"Do you," she asked, "know of Renwold C. Brownley?"

"I've heard of him," Mason said noncommittally.

"Did you know of an Oscar Brownley?"

"I've heard of him."

"I," she announced, "am Mrs. Oscar Brownley!"

She paused dramatically. Mason took a cigarette from the case on his desk and said, "And you are, I believe, a fugitive from justice under an old felony warrant for manslaughter issued in Orange County."