“Acted like he was glad to come,” Monk said.

“You and Monk wait outside, Bing. I’ll have you drive Mr. Rourke back presently.”

The pair went out through a side door. Rourke sat down in a chair of blue leather and chromium near the desk. He got out cigarette papers and a sack of tobacco.

His host took the cover from a rosewood humidor and shoved it toward him. “Won’t you try one of these Havanas?”

“No, thanks.” Rourke’s lean face was blandly expressionless. He poured tobacco in the brown paper and on the carpet.

“I presume you know who I am,” said the square-jawed man.

“I presume you’re Brenner.” Rourke licked his cigarette and crimped the end.

“Correct,” Brenner told him with incisive calm. He pulled a desk lighter toward him and lit a cigar. He settled back and looked at the glowing tip with satisfaction, then said, “I’m not one to beat around the bush. You’re stirring up a lot of trouble with your newspaper stories.”

“That,” said Rourke, “was the general idea.”

Brenner sighed. “I’m a reasonable man. Live and let live is my motto.”

Rourke made no reply.

“How much do you earn on the Courier?”

Rourke grinned and crossed his thin legs. “About half what I’m worth.”

“I need a man like you to take care of public relations. I’m going to make you an offer. I’m only going to make it once. Five hundred a week.”

“For ratting on my job?”

Brenner sighed again. “You’re not a damned reformer. You know people are going to gamble. You’re not going to change anything with your newspaper stories,”

“I’ve got you worried,” Rourke told him.

“You’re beginning to cause trouble,” Brenner admitted. “If you keep that stuff up long enough I’ll lose more than five hundred a week in patronage. It’s a business proposition with me.”