He had spotted Paget’s windows on his arrival. The windows were dark. It was unlikely that Paget had had time to return.
An hour passed and Clyde continued his vigil. At last he was rewarded. A taxi coasted up to the entrance of the apartment house and Paget stepped out.
Clyde recognized the man instantly by his lounging gait. Paget was not looking in his direction. Clyde sauntered slowly across the street and passed within a few feet of the clubman as he entered the apartment house.
“Fine passenger you had,” Clyde remarked nonchalantly, addressing the taxi driver. “I guess those sporty cane carriers hand out big tips, don’t they?”
“Two bits,” growled the driver.
“My, my,” said Clyde, jokingly, “where did you bring him from? Harlem?”
“Seventy-second and Broadway,” returned the driver, climbing into his cab.
Clyde watched the vehicle drive away. He had, at least, discovered the spot where Paget had entered the cab. He walked across the street and looked up at the apartment house. Lights appeared in the window of Paget’s apartment.
Clyde drew his watch from his pocket.
“Paget in at eleven forty-five,” he remarked, aloud. “Came from Seventy-second and—”