"Missis Simmons," he explained between gasps, "says she ain't never heard
of nobody named Maitland. Somebody rang her bell a while ago an' apologized
for disturbin' her--said he wanted the folks on the top floor. I guess yer
man went acrost the roofs: them houses is all connected, and yuh c'n walk
clear from the corner here tuh half-way up tuh Nineteenth Street, on Sain'
Nicholas Avenoo."

"Uh-huh," laconically returned the detective. "Thanks." And turning on his
heel, walked westward.

The policeman crossed the street to detain him for a moment's chat.

"I guess it's all off, Jim," Hickey told him. "Some one must've tipped that
crook off. Anyway, I ain't goin' to wait no longer."

"I wouldn't neither," agreed the uniformed member. "Say, who's yer friend
yeh was talkin' tuh, 'while ago?"

"Oh, a frien' of mine. Yeh didn't have no call to git excited then, Jim.
G'night."

And Hickey proceeded westward, a listless and preoccupied man by the vacant
eye of him. But when he emerged into the glare of Eighth Avenue his face
was unusually red. Which may have been due to the heat. And just before
boarding a down-town surface car, "Oh," he enunciated with gusto, "_hell_!"

* * * * *

One A. M.