"My God, it's Wingate!" the tenant of the room exclaimed. "John Wingate!"
Wingate, who had succeeded in opening the windows, came over and shook hands with the man whom he had come to visit.
"How are you, Andrew?" he said. "What on earth's got you that you choose to live in an atmosphere like this!"
Slate, who had recovered from his surprise, slipped dejectedly back into his place. Wingate had established himself with caution upon the only remaining chair.
"I've had lung trouble over here," Slate explained, "This heavy atmosphere plays the devil with one's breathing. I guess you're right about the windows though. How did you find me out?"
"Telephone directory, aided by my natural intelligence," Wingate replied.
"What are you doing these days?"
"Trying to run straight and finding it filthily difficult," the other answered.
"What do you call yourself, anyway?" Wingate asked. "There's nothing except your name on the board downstairs."
Slate nodded.
"I'm the only one in the building," he said, "who isn't either a theatrical agent or a bookmaker. I've got just a small connection amongst the riffraff as a man who can be trusted to collect the necessary evidence in a divorce case, especially if there's a little collusion, or find a few false witnesses to help a thief with an alibi. Once or twice I have even gone so far as to introduce a receiver to a successful thief."