"To the contrary, I gather from your greeting that you were expecting our
friend, Mr. Anisty?" And the grey man smiled.

Hickey smiled in sympathy, but with less evident relish of the situation's
humor.

"That's right," he admitted. "Got a tip from the C'miss'ner's office this
evening that Anisty would be here at seven o'clock lookin' for a party
named McCabe. I guess it's a bum tip, all right; but of course I got to
look into it."

"Most assuredly." The grey man bent and inspected the names again. "I
am hunting up an old friend," he explained carelessly: "a man named
Simmons--knew him in college--down on his luck--wrote me yesterday. There
he is: fourth floor, east. I'll see you when I come down, I hope, Mr.
Hickey."

The automatic lock clicked and the door swung open; the grey man passing
through and up the stairs. Hickey, ostentatiously ignoring the existence of
the policeman, returned to his post of observation.

At eight o'clock he was still there, looking bored.

At eight-thirty he was still there, wearing a puzzled expression.

At nine he called the adoring hall-boy, gave him a quarter with minute
instructions, and saw him disappear into the hallway of Number 205. Three
minutes later the boy was back, breathless but enthusiastic.