O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. “Endless. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. And, in spite of the boy's resistance, he plunged his hands into his pockets, and drew forth the miniature. That is, until I investigated Iovelli-Alberti in the Fourteenth Century!” They reached a part of the subdivision dubbed “The Treehouse”, a popular hangout for edgy teens who smoked joints in its foundation pits. “You were going to answer it?” “Certainly not!” she said deliberately. His face was very serious.
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