He did not wait to give it personally, but joined Johnnie in the cab.  The address he gave to the driver with the waterproof hat pulled down over his head was that of a certain place of amusement known as Heath’s Palace of Wonders.  A young woman he wanted to consult was wont to sit behind a window there at the receipt of customs.

“It’s worth a fiver extra if you make good time,” Lindsay told the driver.

“You’re on, boss,” answered the man gruffly.

Johnnie, in a fever of anxiety, had trotted along beside his chief to the drug-store in silence.  Now, as they rushed across the city, he put a timid question with a touch of bluff bravado he did not feel.

“We’ll get her back sure, don’t you reckon?”

“We’ll do our best.  Don’t you worry.  That won’t buy us anything.”

“No—­no, I ain’t a-worryin’ none, but—­Clay, I’d hate a heap for any harm to come to that li’l’ girl.”  His voice quavered.

“Sho!  We’re right on their heels, Johnnie.  So are the cops.  We’ll make a gather and get Kitty back all right.”

Miss Annie Millikan’s pert smile beamed through the window at Clay when he stepped up.

“Hello, Mr. Flat-Worker,” she sang out.  “How many?”

“I’m not going in to see the show to-night.  I want to talk with you if you can get some one to take yore place here.”

“Say, whatta you think I am—­one o’ these here Fift’ Avenoo society dames?  I’m earnin’ my hot dogs and coffee right at this window. . . .  Did you say two, lady?” She shoved two tickets through the window in exchange for dimes.

Clay explained that his business was serious.  “I’ve got to see you alone—­now,” he added.

“If you gotta you gotta.”  The girl called an usher, who found a second usher to take her place.

Annie walked down the street a few steps beside Clay.  The little puncher followed them dejectedly.  His confidence had gone down to chill zero.

“What’s the big idea in callin’ me from me job in the rush hours?” asked Miss Millikan.  “And who’s this gumshoe guy from the bush league tailin’ us?  Breeze on and wise Annie if this here business is so important.”

Clay told his story.

“Some of Jerry’s strong-arm work,” she commented.

“Must be.  Can you help me?”

Annie looked straight at him, a humorous little quirk to her mouth.  “Say, what’re you askin’ me to do—­t’row down my steady?”

Which remark carries us back a few days to one sunny afternoon after Clay’s midnight call when he had dropped round to see Miss Annie.  They had walked over to Gramercy Park and sat down on a bench as they talked.  Most men and all women trusted Clay.  He had in him some quality of unspoken sympathy that drew confidences.  Before she knew it Annie found herself telling him the story of her life.