“Why then,” said Morton, a bit wearily, “I have but to say over what you've heard from me before. Young Van Flange was in no sort that man of gifts you held him to be; now really, he wasn't, don't y' know! Anyone might have hoodwinked him. Besides, he didn't keep up with the markets. While I think it beastly bad form to go talking against a chap when he's absent, the truth is, the weak-faced beggar went much more to Barclay than to Wall Street. However, that is only hearsay; I didn't follow young Van Flange to Barclay Street nor meet him across a faro layout by way of verification.”
Morton was right; and I was to hear a worse tale, and that from Inspector McCue.
“Would have been here before,” said Inspector McCue when he came to report, “but I wanted to see our party aboard ship, and outside Sandy Hook light, so that I might report the job cleaned up.”
Then clearing his throat, and stating everything in the present tense, after the police manner, Inspector McCue went on.
“When you ask me can I locate our party, I says to myself, 'Sure thing!' and I'll put you on to why. Our party is a dope fiend; it's a horse to a hen at that very time he can be turned up in some Chink joint.”
“Opium?” I asked in astonishment. I had never harbored the thought.
“Why, sure! That's the reason he shows so sallow about the gills, and with eyes like holes burnt in a blanket. When he lets up on the bottle, he shifts to hop.”
“Go on,” said I.
“Now,” continued Inspector McCue, “I thought I knew the joint in which to find our party. One evenin', three or four years ago, when the Reverend Bronson and I are lookin' up those Barclay Street crooks, I see our party steerin' into Mott Street. I goes after him, and comes upon him in a joint where he's hittin' the pipe. The munk who runs it has just brought him a layout, and is cookin' the pill for him when I shoves in.
“Now when our party is in present trouble, I puts it to myself, that he's sure to be goin' against the pipe. It would be his idea of gettin' cheerful, see! So I chases for the Mott Street hang-out, and there's our party sure enough, laid out on a mat, and a roll of cotton batting under his head for a pillow. He's in the skies, so my plan for a talk right then is all off. The air of the place is that thick with hop it would have turned the point of a knife, but I stays and plays my string out until he can listen and talk.