"Joy and deliverance!" sang Jack. "All honest millionaires can now sleep easy o' nights!"
"But what's going to become of me now?" said poor Bobo.
Jack's transports were interrupted by a ring at the outer door of the suite. He ran to it and flung it open.
Bitter disappointment awaited him.
It was not the famous, much-desired "Mr. B" that he saw outside nor was it a figure that could possibly have taken his shape. Connolly, the house detective, had his huge hand on the shoulder of a slinking, weedy youth with sallow vacuous face, and cigarette stained fingers; in other words, the typical loafer of the Times Square neighborhood. Baldwin was behind the pair, eager to see what would happen.
"Oh, that's not my man!" cried Jack.
There was an awkward silence.
"I followed your instructions to the letter," said Baldwin, eager to justify himself. "You said to arrest any man that asked for that package. This man asked for it."
"Sure," said Jack quickly. "You did right. I'm disappointed, that's all."
"I haven't done anything," whined the prisoner. "What are you going to do to me?"