Mason's eyes became hard and cautious. "So what?" he asked.

Bishop Mallory shook his head. "Don't misunderstand me," he said. "I'm not asking for anything. I don't want anything for myself. I do want to see justice done. Now, if I'm to be the main witness in the case, it would weaken the value of my testimony if it appeared I had taken a preliminary partisan interest, would it not?"

"It might," Mason admitted.

The bishop pushed the curved stem of his pipe between his lips, tamped the tobacco in the bowl with the tip of a stubby forefinger, nodded his head thoughtfully and said, "That's the way I felt about it." Mason sat in watchful silence. "So," Bishop Mallory went on, "I don't want anyone to know I have been here. Naturally, I wouldn't lie about it. If, when I get on the witness stand, they should ask me questions about having taken an interest in the case, I'd answer those questions truthfully, but it would be better for all concerned if those questions weren't asked.

"Now, I'm going to call you in about an hour. At that time I'll tell you where to come to meet me and I'll introduce you to the persons who are vitally interested. Their stories will sound incredible, but will be true. It's a case of a very rich man having been very ruthless and very unjust.

"After that interview," Bishop Mallory went on, "I must disappear and have no further contact with you until you find me and drag me into court as a witness. And, you'll have to be very clever to find me, Mr. Mason. But I think I can count on you for that." The bishop nodded to himself as though entirely satisfied with the situation. He got to his feet abruptly, and his short, stubby legs pounded across the office. He opened the exit door into the corridor, turned, bowed to Mason, and slammed the door behind him.

Della Street, Mason's secretary, emerged from the inner office where she had been taking notes, and said, "How do you figure that one, Chief?"

Mason, standing in the center of his office, feet spread apart, hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, stared intently at the carpet with eyes which were held in fixed focus. "I'll be damned if I know," he said slowly.

"How did you size him up?" she asked.

"If he's a bishop," Mason said, "he's pretty human, no stiffness to his broadcloth, a stubby pipe and the general atmosphere of being a broad-minded man-of-the-world. Notice that he said he wouldn't lie if the other side asked him certain questions, but that it was up to me to keep them from asking those questions."

"Why do you say, if he's a bishop?" Della Street asked.

Mason said slowly, "Bishops don't stutter."

"What do you mean?"

"Bishops," he said, "have to work up. They're men who must be of outstanding ability and they have to talk in public. Now, if a person stuttered, he'd hardly become a minister, any more than he would a lawyer. But, if he did stutter and was a minister, he'd hardly become a bishop."

"I see," she said. "So you think…" She became silent as she stared at him with wide, startled eyes.

He nodded slowly and said, "The man may be a damn clever impostor. On the other hand, he may be a bishop who's been through some experience which has produced an emotional shock. If I remember my medical jurisprudence, one of the causes of stuttering in adults is a sudden emotional shock."

Della Street 's voice showed concern. "Listen, Chief," she said, "if you're going to take this man's word for something and start fighting a multimillionaire like Renwold C. Brownley, you'd first better find out whether he's a genuine bishop or an impostor. It might make quite a difference."

Mason nodded slowly and said, "That was exactly what I had in mind. Ring up the Drake Detective Agency and tell Paul Drake to drop whatever he's doing and come to my office at once."

Paul Drake, head of the Drake Detective Agency, slid sidewise into the big overstuffed leather chair, his back propped against one of the chair arms, his legs draped over the other. He regarded Perry Mason with protruding, somewhat glassy eyes which peered in expressionless appraisal from his rather florid face. When his facial muscles were relaxed, his mouth had a peculiar carp-like appearance which gave him a look of droll humor. He looked so utterly unlike a detective that he was able to accomplish startling results.

Perry Mason, pacing back and forth across his office, thumbs hooked in the armholes of his vest, tossed words over his shoulder. "A Church of England bishop who claims to be William Mallory from Sydney, Australia, has consulted me. He's a close-mouthed chap with the face of an outdoor man… You know what I mean, the skin tanned as though accustomed to the bite of wind… I don't know when he arrived. He wants to know about a manslaughter case growing out of drunken driving in an outlying county twenty-two years ago."

"What does he look like?" the detective asked.

"About fifty-three or fifty-five, five foot six or seven, weight one hundred eighty, wears the ecclesiastical broadcloth and collar, smokes a pipe by preference, cigarettes on occasion, gray eyes, hair darkish and thick but gray around the temples, a competent sort of an individual, stutters occasionally."

"Stutters?" Drake asked.

"That's right."

"You mean he's a bishop and he stutters?"

"Yes."

"Bishops don't stutter, Perry."

"That's just the point," Mason said. "This stuttering must be a recent development, probably due to some emotional shock. I want to find out what that emotional shock is."

"How did he take the stuttering?" Drake asked. "What I mean is, how did he act when he stuttered?"

"Acted just like a golfer does when he tops a drive or misses a mashie."

"I don't like it, Perry," the detective said. "He sounds like a phoney to me. How do you know he's a bishop? Are you just taking his word for it?"

"That's right," Mason agreed readily enough.

"You'd better let me check on him and get all the dope."

"That's exactly what I want you to do, Paul. The bishop is going to get in touch with me in an hour. Shortly after that I've got to say yes or no to a case involving a lot of money. If the bishop's on the square, I'll be inclined to say yes. If he's a phoney I want to say no."

"What's the case?" Drake asked.

"This," Mason told him, "is in the strictest confidence. It involves Renwold C. Brownley, and if there's anything to it at all, it may carry a fee running into the hundreds of thousands." The detective gave a low whistle. "It involves, among other things, an old manslaughter charge, growing out of drunken driving."

"How old?" Drake asked.

"Twenty-two years, Paul."

The detective raised his eyebrows.

"Now there weren't many drunken driving cases twenty-two years ago. Moreover, this case was in an outlying county. I want to know about it, and I want to know about it right away. Put a bunch of men to work. Cover Orange County, San Bernardino, Riverside, Kern and Ventura. I think the defendant was a woman. Check through the records and see if there's an old manslaughter case dating back to 1914 where a woman was the defendant-a case which has never been cleaned up.

"Cable your correspondents in Sydney, Australia, to find out all about Bishop William Mallory. Cover the steamship records, find out when Bishop Mallory arrived in California and what he's been doing with his time since then. Cover the principal hotels and see if they have a Bishop Mallory registered. Put just as many men on the case as you need, but get me results, and get them fast. I want action!"

Drake sighed lugubriously and said, "I'll say you want action! You want a week's work done in sixty minutes."

Mason made no answer, but went on as though he had not heard the comment. "I'm particularly anxious to find out whom he's contacting. Get a line on him as quickly as possible, shadow everyone who comes in contact with him."