"Have you?" said the partridge innocently.
"The man I refer to is John Steadman. Do you know where he is?"
The girl slowly lifted her head and looked at him rather impudently. She seemed more like a large doll than a girl.
"I haven't the pleasure of your acquaintance, Mr. Ralston, if that is your name, and I don't know your friend Steadman."
There was something about her manner that convinced Ralston that she knew more than she admitted, but it was obvious that for purposes of her own she had made up her mind to treat him with the scant courtesy usually extended by show girls to people who are not worth while, and to people it is worth while to keep for a time at a distance.
"I'm very sorry," said Ralston. "I believed that you were the one person in New York who could tell me where he was. Of course, you might know him under some other name."
"Why are you so interested in finding this Mr.—Steadman?" asked the partridge, studiously inserting her foot in a shoe that seemed all toe.
"Simply for his own sake."
"Don't you ever come behind for yours?" she inquired abstractedly. Ralston suppressed a smile.
"See here, young lady—" he began, changing his tactics.