The other note was more perplexing. I could make nothing of it. It was evidently from my unknown employer, and her anxiety was plain to see. But I was no nearer to finding her than before, and if I knew how to reach her I knew not what to say. As I was contemplating this state of affairs with some dejection, and sealing my melancholy note to Detective Coogan, there was a quick step in the hall and a rap at the panel. It was a single person, so I had no hesitation in opening the door, but it gave me a passing satisfaction to have my hand on the revolver in my pocket as I turned the knob.
It was a boy, who thrust a letter into my hand.
“Yer name Wilton?” he inquired, still holding on to the envelope.
“Yes.”
“That's yourn, then.” And he was prepared to make a bolt.
“Hold on,” I said. “Maybe there's an answer.”
“No, there ain't. The bloke as gave it to me said there weren't.”
“Well, here's something I want you to deliver,” said I, taking up my note to Detective Coogan. “Do you know where the City Hall is?”
“Does I know—what are yer givin' us?” said the boy with infinite scorn in his voice.
“A quarter,” I returned with a laugh, tossing him the coin. “Wait a minute.”