Edmund Worthington was called the greatest detective of his time, and he wallowed in every bit of the publicity that it garnished him.  Sure, it wasn't the stage, but had it not been said that great actors fooled the theatre, whilst the greatest actors fooled the world?  He was sure that had been said somewhere, by someone rather important.  If not, why, it out to have been.  To be truthful, his memory for such things was dreadful.  Frankly, his memory for all things was less then brilliant.  He scowled at the thought, and reached for his pocket watch.<br/><br/>"Damnable girl," he growled softly, "I've been here a quarter hour already.  Where the devil has she got off to?"<br/><br/>Edmund stalked the lobby of the constabulary with his brow furrowed, his teeth clenched about a pipe.  His stance and demeanor made him look as if in serious, uninterrupted thought, and when had the reputation that he had, that was enough to keep anyone from asking any curious questions while he waited for his secret weapon to arrive.  It did not bother him, the unethical nature of their deal; yes, the girl did the real work in these cases, but without his name, without his stage presence, she would never have been taken seriously as a detective.  That he should get both fame and half the earnings of their cases was but a small price for the grace of his being.  At last, he spotted her outside the station, and he stormed to the door, catching her eye and beckoning her indoors.