He ran down to his office first, and blossomed out as a first-class masher, of the type who frequent the matinees—real lady killers.
Then he next made his way up town on the elevated road, and got off at Eighty-ninth Street.
In a short time he was in the drug store near the home of the Leslies.
The proprietor was talkative and friendly.
It was just three minutes of ten when a gentleman passed along the pavement in the direction of the house under surveillance.
He turned and came into the drug store ostensibly to buy a cigar, but in reality, as the detective guessed, to pass the time.
Just as the clock was about striking he hurried out and was soon mounting the steps leading to the Leslie mansion.
Eric shrugged his shoulders.
“There’s no accounting for tastes,” he muttered.
“Yes,” laughed the druggist, “he picked out the poorest weed in the box.”