"Yes, most of 'em are," says I. "But I expect you'll be gettin'
married again some of these days and settin' up a reg'lar home, eh?"

He stops short and gives me a stare.

"If I feel the need of discussing the project," says he, "I shall
remember that you are available."

"Oh, don't mention it," says I.

Somehow, I didn't tap Clyde for so much real information. In fact, if
I'd been at all touchy I might have worked up the notion that I was
bein' snubbed.

I keeps step with Mr. Creighton clear to his hotel, where he swings in
the Fifth Avenue entrance without wastin' any breath over fond adieus.
I can't say why I didn't go on home then, instead of hangin' up
outside. Maybe it was because the sidewalk taxi agent had sort of a
familiar look, or perhaps I had an idea I was bein' sleuthy.

Must have been four or five minutes I'd been standin' there, starin' at
the entrance, when out through the revolvin' door breezes Clyde,
puffin' a cigarette and swingin' his walkin'-stick jaunty. He don't
spot me until he's about to brush by, and then he stops short.

"Forgot something?" I suggests.

"Ah--er--evidently," says he, and whirls and marches back into the
hotel.