“Correct!” Chick exclaimed. “Do you know anything about her male friends?”
“No, nothing.”
“Listen. I want you to do something for me.”
“Come across with it, Chick, and consider it done.”
“Telegraph me the result. Address me in care of the Shelby House.”
“I will do so. What’s wanted?”
Chick told him and returned to his room, at the door of which he now found—Patsy Garvan.
“Gee! I’ve been on nettles for an hour, ever since the Southern Limited arrived,” Patsy impatiently declared, after greeting him. “I was at the station and heard about the robbery, but I saw nothing of you, or the chief, and I figured that you both were in wrong, for fair. What’s become of the chief? I’ve been here twice in search of you. Couldn’t you head off the job? What do you want for a starter? Why didn’t you——”
“Cut it! Cut it!” Chick interrupted. “Bridle your tongue, or you’ll ask more questions than I could answer before daylight. Hit up a cigar and give me time to explain. You’re not all the mustard in the pot. Didn’t you know that?”
“Sure I know it,” retorted Patsy. “But I’m some mustard, all the same, with a dash of tabasco thrown in. What’s eating you, anyway? Send for an ice bag and cool your block. Your hair may wilt with the heat and look like dead grass. You’d be a bird, then.”