"That's something!" said Wicks, with the slightest possible show of approval. "Put on your hat and go uptown with me and tell me exactly all about it."
They left the office, proceeded to the Subway, boarded an uptown express that was jammed to the guards with struggling humanity, all deserting the small end of Gotham at once; and here, with Wicks crowded flat up against him, and hanging, first to a strap and then to his shoulder. Garrison related the few facts that he had already briefly summarized.
"Well—nothing to say to you but go ahead," said Wicks, as they neared the Grand Central Station, where he meant to take a train. "Stick to the case till you clean it up. That's all."
Garrison, presently alone on the crowded street, with no particular objective point in view, felt thoroughly depressed and lonely.
He wished he had never discovered the poisoned cigar at Branchville.
Mechanically, his hand sought his pocket, where the second charged weed had been placed.
Then he started and searched his waistcoat wildly.
The deadly cigar was gone!