“That's too bad!” he said—and leaned a little further over the bar. “I've come a long way to see him. I'm a stranger here, and mabbe I've got the wrong place. Mabbe I've got the wrong name too”—Bookie Skarvan's left eyelid twitched again—“mabbe you'd know him better as the Scorpion?”
“Mabbe I would—if I knew him at all,” said the barkeeper non-committally. “Wot's your lay? Fly-cop?”
“You're talking now!” said Bookie Skarvan, with a grin. He pulled a letter from his pocket, and pushed it across the bar. “You can let the Scorpion figure out for himself how much of a fly-cop I am when he gets his lamps on that. And it's kind of important! Get me—friend?”
The barkeeper picked up the plain, sealed envelope—and twirled it meditatively in his hands for a moment, while his eyes again searched Bookie Skarvan's face.
“Youse seem to know yer way about!” he admitted finally, as though not unfavorably impressed by this later inspection.
Bookie Skarvan shoved a cigar across the bar.
“It's straight goods, colonel,” he said. “I'm all the way from 'Frisco, and everything's on the level. I didn't blow in here on a guess. Start the letter on its way, and let the Scorpion call the turn. If he don't want to see me, he don't have to. See?”
“All right!” said the barkeeper abruptly. “But I'm tellin' youse straight I ain't seen him to-night, an' I ain't sayin' he's to be found, or that he's stickin' around here anywhere.”
“I'll wait,” said Bookie Skarvan pleasantly.
The barkeeper walked down the length of the bar, disappeared through a door at the rear for a moment, and, returning, rejoined the group at the upper end of the room.