“Yes,” said Billy; “s'more of Knibbs?”
“No, Service. Come on, let's go and dine. How about the Midland?” and he grinned at his little joke as he led the way toward the street.
It was late afternoon. The sun already had set; but it still was too light for lamps. Bridge led the way toward a certain eating-place of which he knew where a man might dine well and from a clean platter for two bits. Billy had been keeping his eyes open for detectives. They had passed no uniformed police—that would be the crucial test, thought he—unless Bridge intended tipping off headquarters on the quiet and having the pinch made at night after Billy had gone to bed.
As they reached the little restaurant, which was in a basement, Bridge motioned Billy down ahead of him. Just for an instant he, himself, paused at the head of the stairs and looked about. As he did so a man stepped from the shadow of a doorway upon the opposite side of the street.
If Bridge saw him he apparently gave no sign, for he turned slowly and with deliberate steps followed Billy down into the eating-place.
CHAPTER IV. ON THE TRAIL.
AS THEY entered the place Billy, who was ahead, sought a table; but as he was about to hang up his cap and seat himself Bridge touched his elbow.
“Let's go to the washroom and clean up a bit,” he said, in a voice that might be heard by those nearest.
“Why, we just washed before we left our room,” expostulated Billy.