"I'm going with you, boss," not stirring, his black eyes rolling.
"No, I'm going alone, Jonas. Here, I'll pack my own grip. You go on out." This in a voice that sent Jonas, however reluctantly, into the hall, where he walked aimlessly up and down, wringing his hands.
"He ain't been as bad as this in years," he muttered. "I wonder what she did to him!"
Enoch came out of his room shortly. "Tell every one I'm in New York,
Jonas," he said, and was gone.
But Enoch did not go to New York. There was, he found on reaching the station, no train for an hour. He checked his suitcase, and the watching Jonas followed him out into the dark streets. He knew exactly whither the boss was heading, and when Enoch had been admitted into a brick house on a quiet street not a stone's throw from the station, Jonas entered nimbly through the basement.
He had a short conference with a colored man in the kitchen, then he went up to the second floor and sat down in a dark corner of the hall where he could keep an eye on all who entered the rear room. Well dressed men came and went from the room all night. It was nearing six o'clock in the morning when Jonas stopped a waiter who was carrying in a tray of coffee.
"How many's there now?" he demanded.
"Only four," replied the waiter. "That red-headed guy's winning the shirts off their backs. I've seen this kind of a game before. It's good for another day."
"Are any of 'em drinking?" asked Jonas.
"Nothing but coffee. Lord, I'm near dead!"