They had found a taxi drawn up before a saloon, converted into an eating place, and when they went inside they found the driver alone in the restaurant.  They worked up the conversation, as they had done a hundred times before.  Gregg produced the picture and began showing it to Ronicky.

“Maybe the lady’s around here,” said Ronicky, “but I’m new in this part of town.”  He took the picture and turned to the taxi driver.  “Maybe you’ve been around this part of town and know the folks here.  Ever see this girl around?” And he passed the picture to the other.

The taxi driver bowed his head over it in a close scrutiny.  When he looked up his face was a blank.

“I don’t know.  Lemme see.  I think I seen a girl like her the other day, waiting for the traffic to pass at Seventy-second and Broadway.  Yep, she sure was a ringer for this picture.”  He passed the picture back, and a moment later he finished his meal, paid his check and went sauntering through the door.

“Quick!” said Ronicky, the moment the chauffeur had disappeared.  “Pay the check and come along.  That fellow knows something.”

Bill Gregg, greatly excited, obeyed, and they hurried to the door of the place.  They were in time to see the taxicab lurch away from the curb and go humming down the street, while the driver leaned out to the side and looked back.

“He didn’t see us,” said Ronicky confidently.

“But what did he leave for?”

“He’s gone to tell somebody, somewhere, that we’re looking for Caroline Smith.  Come on!” He stepped out to the curb and stopped a passing taxi.  “Follow that machine and keep a block away from it,” he ordered.

“Bootlegger?” asked the taxi driver cheerily.

“I don’t know, but just drift along behind him till he stops.  Can you do that?”

“Watch me!”

And, with Ronicky and Bill Gregg installed in his machine, he started smoothly on the trail.

Straight down the cross street, under the roaring elevated tracks of Second and Third Avenues, they passed, and on First Avenue they turned and darted sharply south for a round dozen blocks, then went due east and came, to a halt after a brief run.

“He’s stopped in Beekman Place,” said the driver, jerking open the door.  “If I run in there he’ll see me.”

Ronicky stepped from the machine, paid him and dismissed him with a word of praise for his fine trailing.  Then he stepped around the corner.

What he saw was a little street closed at both ends and only two or three blocks long.  It had the serene, detached air of a village a thousand miles from any great city, with its grave rows of homely houses standing solemnly face to face.  Well to the left, the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge swung its great arch across the river, and it led, Ronicky knew, to Long Island City beyond, but here everything was cupped in the village quiet.

The machine which they had been pursuing was drawn up on the right-hand side of the street, looking south, and, even as Ronicky glanced around the corner, he saw the driver leave his seat, dart up a flight of steps and ring the bell.