“Somewhat,” says Clyde, steppin’ out brisk.

“Odd line,” says I.  “Now, I could never see much percentage in havin’ grandfathers’ clocks and old spinning-wheels and such junk around.”

“Really,” says he.

“One of your fads, I expect?” says I.

“M-m-m,” says he.

“Shouldn’t think you’d find room in a hotel for such stuff,” I goes on, doin’ a hop-skip across a curb, “or do you have another joint, too?”

“Quite so,” says he.  “Studio.”

“Oh!” says I.  “Whereabouts?”

“In town,” says he.

“Yes, most of ’em are,” says I.  “But I expect you’ll be gettin’ married again some of these days and settin’ up a reg’lar home, eh?”

He stops short and gives me a stare.

“If I feel the need of discussing the project,” says he, “I shall remember that you are available.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” says I.

Somehow, I didn’t tap Clyde for so much real information.  In fact, if I’d been at all touchy I might have worked up the notion that I was bein’ snubbed.

I keeps step with Mr. Creighton clear to his hotel, where he swings in the Fifth Avenue entrance without wastin’ any breath over fond adieus.  I can’t say why I didn’t go on home then, instead of hangin’ up outside.  Maybe it was because the sidewalk taxi agent had sort of a familiar look, or perhaps I had an idea I was bein’ sleuthy.

Must have been four or five minutes I’d been standin’ there, starin’ at the entrance, when out through the revolvin’ door breezes Clyde, puffin’ a cigarette and swingin’ his walkin’-stick jaunty.  He don’t spot me until he’s about to brush by, and then he stops short.

“Forgot something?” I suggests.

“Ah—­er—­evidently,” says he, and whirls and marches back into the hotel.

“Huh!” says I, indicatin’ nothin’ much.

“Where to, sir?” says someone at my elbow.

It’s the taxi agent, who has drifted up and mistaken me for a foolish guest.

Kind of a throaty, husky voice he has, that you wouldn’t forget easy; and I knew them aeroplane ears of his couldn’t be duplicated.

“Why, hello, Loppy!” says I.  “How long since you quit runnin’ copy in the Sunday room?”

“Well, blow me!” says he.  “Torchy, eh?”

That’s what comes of havin’ been in the newspaper business once.  You never know when you’re going to run across one of the old crowd.  I cut short the reunion, though, to ask about Creighton.

“The swell in the silk lid I just had words with,” says I.

“Don’t place him,” says Loppy.  “Never turned a flag for him, anyway.  Why?”

“Oh, I’d kind of like to get a sketch of him,” says I.

“That’s easy,” says Loppy.  “Remember Scanlon, that used to be doorman at Headquarters?”

“Squint?” says I.

“Same one,” says he.  “Well, he’s inside—­one of the house detective squad.  His night on, too.  And say, if your man’s one that hangs out here you can bank on Squint to give you the story of his life.  Just step in and send a bell-hop after Squint.  Say I want him.”