“What do you know of his private affairs?”

Sammy Simpson rubbed his chin.

“Excuse me, but who am I talking to?” he asked abruptly.

“Never mind who I am.  I am here to get all the information I can about Chris Holtzmann, and I’m willing to pay for it.  Of course I’m not rich, but I’ve got a few dollars.  If you can’t help me I’ll have to go elsewhere.”

My plain speech startled Sammy Simpson.

“Hold up; don’t get mad because I asked your name.  You’ve a perfect right to keep it to yourself if you want to.  Only make it sure to me that I’ll get paid for what I tell and it will be all right.”

I was perplexed.  I had half a mind to mention Mr. Harrison’s name, but if I did that, the man might expect altogether too much.

“I will promise you that you lose nothing,” I said.  “But we can’t talk things over in the street.  Tell me where I can meet you later on.”

“Want to see Holtzmann first?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t get anything out of him, I’ll wager you that.”

“I don’t expect to.  I want to see what kind of a man he is.”

“Well, you’ll find me at 28 Hallock Street generally.  If I’m not in, you can find out there where I’ve gone to.”

“I’ll remember it.  In the meantime don’t speak of this meeting to any one.”

“Mum’s the word,” rejoined Sammy Simpson.

I went on my way deep in thought.  I considered it a stroke of luck that I had fallen in with Chris Holtzmann’s former clerk.  No doubt the man knew much that would prove of value to me.

I doubted if this man was perfectly honest.  I was satisfied that the concert-hall manager had had good grounds for discharging him.  But it often “takes a rogue to catch a rogue,” and I was willing to profit by any advantage that came to hand.

At length I reached the next corner.  On it stood a splendid building of marble, having over the door in raised letters:—­

ChrisHoltzmann’s
Palace of Pleasure. 
Open all the Time.  Admission Free!

For a moment I hesitated.  Should I enter such a hole of iniquity?

Then came the thought of my mission; how I wished to clear the family name from the stain that rested upon it and free my father from imprisonment, and I went in.

I do not care to describe the scene that met my eyes.  The magnificent decorations of the place were to my mind entirely out of keeping with its character.  The foulness of a subcellar would have been more appropriate.

In the back, where a stage was located, were a number of small tables.  I sat down at one of these and had a waiter bring me a glass of soda water.

“Is Mr. Holtzmann about?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.  There he is over by the cigar counter.  Shall I call him?”

“No.”

I paid for my soda and sipped it leisurely.  The place was about half full, and all attention was being paid to “Master Ardon, the Wonderful Boy Dancer,” who was doing a clog on the stage.