“Forget the sight-seeing,” he said, “and let’s move along. The quicker I’m out of this mass of humanity, the better pleased I’ll be. These crowds of New Yorkers don’t give a fellow a chance to take a deep breath for fear he’ll crush in somebody else’s ribs.”
“Here we are,” said Jack, turning in at a tall office building, near lower Broadway, with old St. Paul’s and its churchyard, filled now with loitering clerks spending their dinner hour among the graves, just across the way.
Once more an express elevator whisked the trio skyward. At the fourteenth floor they alighted, made their way to an office, the glass door of which bore no lettering except the number “12,” and entered.
“Inspector Condon, please,” said Jack, to a fat young man, smoking a long black cigar, who sat in 44 his shirtsleeves at a desk, reading through a mass of papers.
The latter got to his feet, and held out his hand. He had a jolly face which broke into a grin of welcome, as he extended his hand.
“That’s me,” he said.
Jack was rather taken aback. He had not expected to meet so young a man in a position of such responsibility. This man could not have been more than 26 or 28 years of age. Passing over his astonishment, however, Jack introduced himself and his companions and then extended the card of introduction given him a year before by Inspector Burton, when they left Washington, but which heretofore had not been presented.
“So,” said Inspector Condon, reading the note on the back of the card; “you are the three chaps who made such a stir in that business in California? Mighty glad to meet you. Sit down. What can I do for you?”
“That remains to be seen,” said Jack. “However, we have run into something rather curious, and we thought you might be interested. So if you have time to listen, we’ll spin the yarn.”
“All the time in the world, friend,” said Inspector Condon, genially. “Shoot.” 45