as my cab, on my way uptown, passed the door, I offered him a lift.
He appeared to consider the advisability of this, and then, with much
by-play of glancing over his shoulder, dived into the front seat and
drew down the blinds. "This hotel I am going to is an old-fashioned
trap," he explained, "but the clerk is wise to me, understand, and I
don't have to sign the register."

As we drew nearer to the hotel, he said: "It's a pity we can't dine out
somewheres and go to the theatre, but--you know?"

With almost too much heartiness I hastily agreed it would be imprudent.

"I understand perfectly," I assented. "You are a marked man. Until you
get those papers safe in the hands of your 'people,' you must be very
cautious."

"That's right," he said. Then he smiled craftily.

"I wonder if you're on yet to which my people are."

I assured him that I had no idea, but that from the avidity with which
he had abused them I guessed he was working for the Walker-Keefe crowd.

He both smiled and scowled.

"Don't you wish you knew?" he said. "I've told you a lot of inside
stories, Mr. Crosby, but I'll never tell on my pals again. Not me!
That's MY secret."

At the door of the hotel he bade me a hasty good-by, and for a few