“I’ll have to get back to Patsy, and send him out to telephone,” he said to himself, when he was satisfied that the outer door to the yard was not held by anything save the swelling wood, which kept it jammed against the doorpost, but not too firmly to be dislodged with one good push. “Let’s see! The chief told me just as I was coming out that he would be at police headquarters in Jersey City. I wonder whether I’d better telephone, or whether it wouldn’t be safer to let Patsy go there.”
He might have asked this of Patsy, only that he preferred to make up his mind from circumstances, rather than on the advice of anybody—even so shrewd a young fellow as Patsy Garvan.
When he had made his way back across the room where the metal still simmered on the funny-looking stove, and was at the door where he had left Patsy, he had determined on what should be done.
“Patsy!”
“That’s me!”
“Anything happened?”
“Not a thing. As peaceful as West Point on a summer afternoon.”
“Well, get out and see the chief.”
“See him? I thought I was to telephone.”