"We want a word or two with you," said Cassidy, with a sort of threatening emphasis.
"Are you—are you officers?" He got the question out with a separate gulp for each separate word.
"Not exactly," answered Cassidy, and tightened his grip on the other's shoulder the least bit more firmly. "But we can call one mighty easy if you ain't satisfied to talk to us a minute or two. There's one yonder."
He ducked his head toward where, forty yards distant, a middle-aged and somewhat pursy patrolman was shepherding the traffic that eddied in small whirls about the steps of the subway terminal.
"All right, all right," assented the captive eagerly. "I'll talk to you. Let's go over there—where it's quiet." He pointed a wavering finger, with a glistening, highly polished nail on it, toward the opposite side of the street; there the park came right up to the sidewalk and ended. They went, and in a minute all three of them were grouped close up to the shrub-lined boundary. The mottled-faced man was in the middle. Green stood on one side of him and Cassidy on the other, shouldering up so close that they blocked him off, flank and front.
"Now, then, we're all nice and cozy," said Cassidy with a touch of that irony which a cat often displays, in different form, upon capturing a live mouse. "And we want to ask you a few questions. What's your name—your real name?" he demanded roughly.
"Morrison," said the man, licking with his tongue to moisten his lips.
"Did you say Maxwell?" asked Cassidy, shooting out his syllables hard and straight.
"No, no—I said Morrison." The man looked as though he were going to collapse then and there.
"One name's as good as another, I guess, ain't it?" went on the detective. "Well, what's your business?"