His confused reverie was presently interrupted by the sound of the woman's high, clear voice at a telephone located (he fancied) somewhere in the hallway of the second story.
"Hello! Columbus, seven, four hundred, please.... Hello—Mason?... Taxicab, please—Mrs. Jefferson Inche.... Yes—charge.... Yes—immediately.... Thank you!"
A moment later she reappeared on the stairs, carrying a wrap of some sort over her arm: a circumstance which caused P. Sybarite uneasily to wonder if she meant to push her notorious indifference to convention to the limit of going out in a taxicab with no other addition to her airy costume than a cloak.
But when she again entered the "den," it proved to be a man's coat and soft hat that she had found for him.
"Get up," she ordered imperiously, "and change to these before you get pinched for impersonating an officer. I've called a taxi for you, and this is what I want you to do: go to Dutch House—that's a dive on Fortieth Street—"
"I've heard of it," nodded P. Sybarite. "Any sober man who stays away from it is almost perfectly safe, I believe."
"I'll back you to take care of yourself," said the lady. "Ask for Red November.... You know who he is?"
"The gangster? Yes."
"If he isn't in, wait for him if you wait till daylight—"
"Important as all that, eh?"