Mr. Denton’s feelings quite overcame him, and as a means of soothing them he had recourse to the bottle.
He was in a state of blind intoxication when he reached the ferry at Thirty-fourth Street of the Long Island Railroad.
Dick had an hour and a half to wait for a train to Little Neck—few trains running to that point in the winter—and he strolled into a den kept by Jack Shea.
After condoling with the barmaid over the unhappy fate that had overtaken the proprietor, Denton settled himself in a chair for a nap.
“Mr. Carter!”
The detective was standing in front of police headquarters, and turning around, he saw Tambourine Jack at his elbow.
The little fellow was puffing and blowing like a steam engine; it was a cold day, but the perspiration rolled down Jack’s checks.
When he caught his breath, Tambourine said:
“Come—Dick Denton.”