“Mustache? Did he wear a mustache?”
“Yes. It was a little one, but I lamped it all right. He walked along steadily, talking to the girl.”
“What girl? Who are you talking about?”
“Miss Solado. At least, that’s who you said she was, when you was showing me the people I had to pick up later. She was with this here prince, and she went into the train with him. Afterward she came out, called a taxi, and told the driver to take her to a place in upper Broadway. She said she would show him the house she wanted when she got there.”
Collins delivered all this information with the smoothness of one accustomed to making detailed reports, and Miguel knew he had heard all that his spy could tell him.
“You are quite sure Prince Marcos was not seriously hurt?”
“I’ll bet on that. He swung his arms as he walked, and you could tell, from the move of him, that he felt pretty good all around. I know how a guy acts when he’s been plugged. There ain’t nothing wrong with this prince, and you can bet on it.”
“That will do, Collins,” said Miguel, after a pause, during which he finished the cigarette he had been smoking and lighted another. “Be at your home, so that I can call you up when I want you.”
“I’ll be there right along as soon as I can get there. It’s a regular hotel, even if it does look like a saloon, and we have a telephone and everything to make a fellow comfortable. So why shouldn’t I stay there?”
When Collins had gone, Prince Miguel got up, stretched himself, and walked up and down the lobby, cigarette in mouth, and deeply cogitating.