“Yes—but you’ve met him recently,” said the detective, leaning forward. “You know where he is, and”—he tapped Hugh on the knee impressively—“I want him. I want Hiram C. Potts like a man wants a drink in a dry state. I want to take him back in cottonwool to his wife and daughters. That’s why I’m over this side, Captain, just for that one purpose.”
“There seem to me to be a considerable number of people wandering around who share your opinion about Mr. Potts,” drawled Hugh. “He must be a popular sort of cove.”
“Popular ain’t the word for it, Captain,” said the other. “Have you got him now?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” answered Hugh, beckoning to a passing waiter. “Three Martinis.”
“Where is he?” snapped the detective eagerly.
Hugh laughed.
“Being wrapped up in cottonwool by somebody else’s wife and daughters. You were a little too quick, Mr. Green; you may be all you say—on the other hand, you may not. And these days I trust no one.”
The American nodded his head in approval.
“Quite right,” he remarked. “My motto—and yet I’m going to trust you. Weeks ago we heard things on the other side, through certain channels, as to a show which was on the rails over here. It was a bit vague, and there were big men in it; but at the time it was no concern of ours. You run your own worries, Captain, over this side.”
Hugh nodded.