The others agreed.
English let them get in first. "Back to the Turtle Bay," he said to me. His lips added soundlessly: "She is here!"
When they got out again, English paid me off. His expressive eyes said clearly that he wished to speak to me further. The others stood close, and we dared not take any risk.
I thanked him, touching my cap. "Any time you want me, gen'lemen, call up Plaza 6771," I said.
They went inside.
I had given the first telephone number that came into my head. It was that of an artist friend of mine who had a studio apartment on Fifty-ninth street. I hastened up there in the car, and routed him out of bed. Artists are used to these interruptions. I had a little difficulty, however, in making myself known to a man half asleep. He was decent about it, though. He gave me tobacco, and telling me to make myself comfortable, went back to bed.
In an hour or so the telephone bell rang, and to my joy I heard English's voice on the wire.
"This you?" he said. We named no names.
"I get you," I said. "Fire away."
He plunged right into his story and though plainly labouring under excitement, was admirably clear and succinct.