He leaned forward over the desk. He looked straight at Willie. He was smiling, but there was something terribly hard in his eyes. For a moment Willie Meraulton, looking at him, realized the strength of this tousled-haired private detective, this cheap-jack who had been pushed into a murder case to play an unimportant part, who had stolen all the limelight and who was now proceeding to cast himself for the leading role.
'I once read a bit of poetry,' said Callaghan. 'It was called The Urgent Hangman. I always remembered a bit of it. It went like this:
See how she twists and turns in parlous straits.
Finger your neck, sweet, the urgent hangman waits."
'You remind me of that bit of poetry,' Callaghan went on grimly. 'You thought you were goin' to be the urgent hangman, didn't you? You tho
