There was a telephone booth at one side of the corridor; the speaker went in and closed the door.  After a few moments he came out.

“Just as I thought,” he said, well pleased.  “Partridge knew the cab in a moment.  The driver’s name is Sams, and he lives at the place they call the Beehive.”  He looked at his watch.  “It wants but a few minutes of four,” he added, “and a night-hawk cabby will be just about stirring.  The Beehive is only three blocks away; suppose we go around and look him up.”

Pendleton agreed instantly; and after a brisk walk and a breathless climb, they found themselves on the fourth floor of a huge brick building where they had been directed by a meek-looking woman in a dust-cap.  A long hall with a great many doors upon each side, all looking alike, stretched away before them.

“It’s very plain that the only way to find Mr. Sams is to make a noise,” said Ashton-Kirk.  And with that he stalked down the hall, his heels clattering on the bare boards.  “Hello,” he cried loudly.  “Sams is wanted!  Hello, Sams!”

A door opened, and a face covered with thick soap suds and surmounted by a tangle of sandy hair looked out.

“Hello,” growled this person, huskily.  “Who wants him?”

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Sams,” said Ashton-Kirk.  “We have a small matter of business with you that will require a few moments of your time.  May we come in?”

“Sure,” said Sams.

They entered the room, which contained a bed, a trunk, a wash-stand, and a chair.

“One of you can take the chair; the other can sit on the trunk,” said the hack driver, nodding toward these articles.  Then he proceeded to strop a razor at one of the windows.  “Excuse me if I go on with this reaping.  I must go out and feed the horse, and then get breakfast.”

“You breakfast rather late,” commented Ashton-Kirk.

“I’m lucky to get it at any time, in this business,” grumbled Sams.  “Out all night, sleep all day, and get blamed little for it, at that.”

He posed before a small mirror stuck up beside the window and gave the blade an experimental sweep across his face.  Then he turned and asked inquiringly: 

“Did youse gents want anything particular?”

“We’d like to ask a question or two regarding what happened last night in Christie Place.”

The cab driver’s forehead corrugated; he closed his razor, laid it down and shoved his’ soapy face toward the speaker.

“Say,” spoke he, roughly.  “I drives people wherever they wants to go; but I don’t ask no questions.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Sams,” said Ashton-Kirk.  “The affair that I’m looking up happened across the street—­at Hume’s—­second floor of 478.”

“Oh!” Sams stared for a moment, then he took up his razor, turned his back and went on with his shaving.  But there was expectancy in his attitude; and Ashton-Kirk smiled confidently.