Snell poured himself a stiff drink of whiskey.
“Once more,” he said, raising his glass, “I thank you for coming to my rescue. Honestly, I believe I should be a dead man this minute if you hadn’t. Here’s your health.”
“Thanks,” responded Patsy.
“Now,” continued Snell, “I don’t like to leave a man who has saved my life, in this abrupt way, but I’ve got to. This telegram calls me out of town, and I must lose no time in getting ready. Won’t you leave me your name and address?”
“Why,” answered Patsy, “I’ll give you my name if you want it, and address, too, but it isn’t likely that we shall meet again if you don’t live in New York. My name is James Callahan,” and he gave an address that the detectives sometimes used.
It was a place where any letters that came to strange names were promptly taken to Nick’s house.
Snell made a note of the address.
“My name is Snell,” he said, “and I hope we shall meet again, Mr. Callahan. I must say good-by now.”
They shook hands and Snell went to the elevator.
“I wish he had dropped that telegram,” thought the detective.