The Case Of The Howling Dog

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DELLA STREET held open the door to the inner office, and spoke in the tone which a woman instinctively uses in speaking to a child or a very sick man.

"Go right in, Mr. Cartright," she said. "Mr. Mason will see you."

A broad-shouldered, rather heavy-set man, of about thirty-two, with haunted brown eyes, walked into the office, and stared at the sober countenance of Perry Mason.

"You're Perry Mason," he asked, "the lawyer?"

Mason nodded.

"Sit down," he said.

The man dropped into the chair Mason had indicated with a gesture, mechanically reached for a package of cigarettes, took one out, conveyed it to his lips, and had the package half way back to his pocket before he thought to offer one to Perry Mason.

The hand that held the extended package of cigarettes trembled, and the lawyer's knowing eyes stared for a moment at the quivering hand before he shook his head.

"No," he said, "thank you, I've got my own brand."

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