“Sure,” said Cardona, studying the man closely.
“Well,” said the cabman, “I guess you’re the fellow I want to see. But listen, you ain’t goin’ to hold me here, are you? I can tell you where I live — anythin’ you want to know. I ain’t got much to tell you—”
“Say!” exclaimed Cardona. “Are you the man who took that note to Charles Blefken?”
The man nodded.
“Where did you get it?” demanded Cardona. “Tell us all you know about it!”
“You ain’t goin’ to hold me, are you?” pleaded the man.
“Not if you answer all the questions I want to ask you. We’ll let you go. What’s your name?”
“DUNC MILLER,” said the cabman. He had evidently anticipated the question, for he pulled his identification cards from his pocket.
“I’ve got my cab outside. I didn’t tell Blefken all I knew about the man who gave me the note, because the fellow asked me to keep mum. He came up to me on One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street, over by Eighth Avenue. Gave me the note and the century spot.”
“Yes? What did he look like?”