“I see it all,” Bolton said to himself, thoughtfully. “Curtis Waring is afraid of the boy—and of me. He’s circumvented me neatly, and the game is his—so far my little plan is dished. I must find out for certain whether he’s had anything to do with gettin’ Dodger out of the way, and then, Tim Bolton, you must set your wits to work to spoil his little game.”
Bolton succeeded in securing the services of a young man who had experience at tending bar, and about eight o’clock, after donning his best attire, he hailed a Fourth Avenue surface car and got aboard.
Getting out at the proper street, he made his way to Madison Avenue, and ascended the steps of John Linden’s residence.
The door was opened by Jane, who eyed the visitor with no friendly glance.
“What do you want?” she asked, in a hostile tone.
“Is Mr. Waring at home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Miss Florence at home?”
“Do you know her?” she asked.
“Yes; I am a friend of hers.”