Politics and Poker... that was the occupation and the preoccupation of the members of the White Cat Club. Once on the inside, a man's business was his own and nobody gave a damn if he was the mayor of the town or the champion poolplayer of the first ward. It was a noisy, crowded, masculine kind of retreat, which explained the sign that hung proudly over the door: "The White Cat Never Sleeps." But murder entered the wakeful chambers of the White Cat and its victims slept the deep, long sleep of the dead.
d drink to a person with an analytical turn of mind. I can't deduct. Nineteen from thirty-five leaves sixteen, according to my mental process, although I know men who could make the difference nothing."
I believe she thought I was a little mad, for her face took on again its despairing look.
"We must find him, Mr. Knox," she insisted as she got up. "If you know of a detective that you can trust, please get him. But you can understand that the unexplained absence of the state treasurer must be kept secret. One thing I am sure of: he is being kept away. You don't know what enemies he has! Men like Mr. Schwartz, who have no scruples, no principle."
"Schwartz!" I repeated in surprise. Henry Schwartz was the boss of his party in the state; the man of whom one of his adversaries had said, with the distinct approval of the voting public, that he was so low in the scale of humanity that it would require a special dispensation of Heaven to raise him to the level of total degradation. But