They entered the hack.
Darrell gave his first address to Joe who repeated it to the driver.
Away they went.
“Hello! what’s wrong with your hand?” asked the detective. The carriage lamps gave enough light for him to see that Joe had his handkerchief wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand.
“Took a tumble up a dark flight of stairs when I was looking awhile back and bruised my knuckles.”
Darrell smiled but made no remark. He thought he knew how that hand had become bruised—it was in a more honorable business than falling up stairs—in defending a weak and helpless woman against ruffians.
“You know some of these places then, Joe?”
“My driver knew of several, but I had hard work getting in.”
Darrell thought so.
“Perhaps they did not think I wanted to play, and may have been suspicious of my intentions.”