The cabby tucked the money in his pocket and climbed back to his seat.  “Don’t know if somebody was to ask me,” he said to himself, as he watched The Spider hobble down the next block.  “Lemme see,” he continued as he drove slowly along.  “Some guy comes up and asks me for a match and starts talkin’ friendly, and mebby asks me to have a drink, and I get friendly and tell him about that young sport from the East that’s been seein’ the town and how somebody over to his hotel must ‘a’ told him about the game at Pony’s—­and how he’s upstairs, gettin’ his hair cut—­short.  Oh, I guess I ain’t been in this business eight years for nothin’.”

But the inquisitive stranger did not appear and the cabby’s invention was wasted.

The Spider entered the first door to the left of the long hallway.  The room was fitted up as an office, with huge leather-upholstered chairs, a mahogany center table, and a mahogany desk.  In one corner stood a large safe.  On the safe-door was lettered “A.  L. Baxter & Co.”

A man with a young, smooth face and silver-white hair was sitting at the desk.  He turned and nodded pleasantly.

“I want to see Pony,” said The Spider.

“You’re talking to him,” said the other.  “What can I do for you?”

“You can tell Pony that I want to see him, here,” said The Spider.  “And don’t worry, he knows me.”

“The name, please.”

“Never mind that.  Just take a good look at me—­and tell him.  He’ll come.”

The other rose and, stepping to the inner door, beckoned to some one in the room beyond.  The Spider seated himself, lighted a cigar, and leaned back as though thoroughly at home.  Presently a big man came in briskly:  a full-bodied, smooth-cheeked man who looked like the prosperous manager of some legitimate business enterprise, save for the large diamond horseshoe scintillating in his gray silk tie.

“Why, hello, Jim!” he cried, evidently surprised.  He told his partner casually that he could go on inside and look after things for a few minutes.  When the other had gone he turned to The Spider.  “What can I do for you, Jim?”

“Tell me where I can find White-Eye.”

“White-Eye?  He hasn’t been in here for three or four years.  I didn’t know he was in town.”

“That might go with the bulls, Pony.  I know White-Eye doesn’t hang out reg’lar here—­ain’t his kind of a joint.  But you can tell me where he does hang out.  And I want to know.”

“You looking for him, Jim?”

“No.  But I’ve got a hunch he’s looking for me.”

“Just how bad do you think he wants to see you?” queried Baxter, tilting back his swing-chair and glancing sideways at The Spider.

“About as bad as I want to see him,” said The Spider.

“You haven’t been in town for quite a while, Jim.”

“No.  Fifteen years, I reckon.”

“You don’t change much.”