“No. I promised old Charley O’Mara I’d see his girl for him. Poor Charley is dead.”
“He wasn’t in your class, Chester. Nobody is.”
“Where’s the Dropper’s scatter?”
“Five doors from the corner, on Harrison Street. Is the girl there?”
“Yes.”
“Then may God help her. You can’t!”
Fay passed from the fence and lost himself in the clothing-department of a dry-goods store. He entered the place a carpenter—down in the heels and somewhat grimy from his train-ride. He emerged with a bamboo cane hooked over the sleeve of a shepherd-plaid suit. His hat was a flat-brimmed Panama, his shoes correct.
A bath, shave, shampoo and haircut completed his metamorphosis. He left a barber-shop—the proper figure of a young man. He walked briskly, seeing everything.
There were detectives in that city—discerning ones. He avoided the main streets and crossings. Wolf-keen and alert for the police, he turned toward the dive where little Emily O’Mara lived. He distrusted the place and cursed himself for the venture.